As she did
so, Charles sidled up to me. "Sey," he whispered, "I'm an old hand,
and I'm not readily taken in. I've been talking to that girl, and
upon my soul I think she's all right. She's a charming little lady.
We may be mistaken after all, of course, about young Granton. In any
case, it's well for the present to be courteous. A most important
option! If it's really he, we must do nothing to annoy him or let
him see we suspect him."
I had noticed, indeed, that Mrs. Granton had made herself most
agreeable to Charles from the very beginning. And as to one thing he
was right. In her timid, shrinking way she was undeniably charming.
That cast in her eye was all pure piquancy.
We rowed out on to the Firth, or, to be more strictly correct, the
two Grantons rowed while Charles and I sat and leaned back in the
stern on the luxurious cushions. They rowed fast and well. In a very
few minutes they had rounded the point and got clear out of sight
of the Cockneyfied towers and false battlements of Seldon.
Mrs. Granton pulled stroke. Even as she rowed she kept up a brisk
undercurrent of timid chaff with Sir Charles, giggling all the
while, half forward, half shy, like a school-girl who flirts with
a man old enough to be her grandfather.
Sir Charles was flattered.
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