He has a grand time. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. “You don’t waste any time. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. I don’t conceal it. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. Before he could return, Jack had made good his retreat; and, wandering about the lanes and hedges, kept out of sight as much as possible.
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