"How do you know that?" And Errington glanced at him keenly and inquiringly.
"How do I know? Come, I like that! Have I studied myself all these years for nothing? Look here,"—and he carefully drew out the little withering bunch of daisies he had purloined—"these are for you. I knew you wanted them, though you hadn't the impudence to pick them up, and I had. I thought you might like to put them under your pillow, and all that sort of thing, because if one is resolved to become love-lunatic, one may as well do the thing properly out and out,—I hate all half-measures. Now, if the remotest thrill of sentiment were in me, you can understand, I hope, that wild horses would not have torn this adorable posy from my possession! I should have kept it, and you would never have known of it," and he laughed softly. "Take it, old fellow! You're rich now, with the rose she gave you besides. What is all your wealth compared with the sacred preciousness of such blossoms! There, don't look so awfully estactic, or I shall be called upon to ridicule you in the interests of common sense. So you're in love with the girl at once, and have done with it. Don't beat about the bush!"
"I'm not sure about it," said Philip, taking the daisies gratefully, however, and pressing them in his pocket-book. "I don't believe in love at first sight!"
"I do," returned Lorimer decidedly. "Love is electricity. Two telegrams are enough to settle the business,—one from the eyes of the man, the other from those of the woman. You and Miss Güldmar must have exchanged a dozen such messages at least."
"And you?" inquired Errington persistently. "You had the same chance as myself."
George shrugged his shoulders. "My dear boy, there are no wires of communication between the Sun-angel and myself; nothing but a blank, innocent landscape, over which perhaps some day, the mild lustre of friendship may beam. The girl is beautiful—extraordinarily so; but I'm not a 'man o' wax,' as Juliet's gabbling old nurse says—not in the least impressionable."
And forthwith he resumed his oar, saying briskly as he did so—
"Phil, do you know those other fellows must be swearing at us pretty forcibly for leaving them so long with Dyceworthy. We've been away two hours!"
"Not possible!" cried Errington, amazed, and wielding his oar vigorously. "They'll think me horribly rude. By Jove, they must be bored to death!"
And, stimulated by the thought of the penance their friends were enduring, they sent the boat spinning swiftly through the water, and rowed as though they were trying for a race, when they were suddenly pulled up by a loud "Halloo!" and the sight of another boat coming slowly out from Bosekop, wherein two individuals were standing up, gesticulating violently.
"There they are!" exclaimed Lorimer. "I say, Phil, they've hired a special tub, and are coming out to us."
So it proved. Duprèz and Macfarlane had grown tired of waiting for their truant companions, and had taken the first clumsy wherry that presented itself, rowed by an even clumsier Norwegian boatman, whom they had been compelled to engage also, as he would not let his ugly punt out of his sight, for fear some harm might chance to befall it. Thus attended, they were on their way back to the yacht. With a few long, elegant strokes, Errington and Lorimer soon brought their boat alongside, and their friends gladly jumped into it, delighted to be free of the company of the wooden-faced mariner they had so reluctantly hired, and who now, on receiving his fee, paddled awkwardly away in his ill-constructed craft, without either a word of thanks or salutation. Errington began to apologize at once for his long absence, giving as a reason for it, the necessity he found himself under of making a call on some persons of importance in the neighborhood, whom he had, till now, forgotten.
"My good Phil-eep!" cried Duprèz, in his cheery sing song accent, "why apologize? We have amused ourselves! Our dear Sandy has a vein of humor that is astonishing! We have not wasted our time. No! We have made Mr. Dyceworthy our slave; we have conquered him; we have abased him! He is what we please,—he is for all gods or for no god,—just as we pull the string! In plain words, mon cher, that amiable religious is drunk!"
"Drunk!" cried Errington and Lorimer together. "Jove! you don't mean it?"
Macfarlane looked up with a twinkle of satirical humor in his deep-set grey eyes.
"Ye see," he said seriously, "the Lacrima, or Papist wine as he calls it, was strong—we got him to take a good dose o't—a vera feir dose indeed. Then, doun he sat, an' fell to convairsing vera pheelosophically o' mony things,—it wad hae done ye gude to hear him,—he was fair lost in the mazes o' his metapheesics, for twa flies took a bit saunter through the pleasant dewy lanes o' his forehead, an' he never raised a finger to send them awa' aboot their beeziness. Then I thoet I wad try him wi' the whusky—I had ma pocket flask wi' me—an' O mon! he was sairly glad and gratefu' for the first snack o't! He said it was deevilish fine stuff, an' so he took ane drappikie, an' anither drappikie, and yet anither drappikie,"—Sandy's accent got more and more pronounced as he went on—"an' after a bit, his heed dropt doun, an' he took a wee snoozle of a minute or twa,—then he woke up in a' his strength an' just grappit the flask in his twa hands an' took the hale o't off at a grand, rousin' gulp! Ma certes! after it ye shuld ha' seen him laughin' like a feckless fule, an' rubbin' an' rubbin' his heed, till his hair was like the straw kicked roond by a mad coo!"
Lorimer lay back in the stern of the boat and laughed uproariously at this extraordinary picture, as did the others.
"But that is not all," said Duprèz, with delighted mischief sparkling in his wicked little dark eyes; "the dear religious opened his heart to us. He spoke thickly, but we could understand him. He was very impressive! He is quite of my opinion. He says all religion is nonsense, fable, imposture,—Man is the only god, Woman his creature and subject. Again,—man and woman conjoined, make up divinity, necessity, law. He was quite clear on that point. Why did he preach what he did not believe, we asked? He almost wept! He replied that the children of this world liked fairy-stories and he was paid to tell them. It was his bread and butter,—would we wish him to have no bread and butter? We assured him so cruel a thought had no place in our hearts! Then he is amorous—yes! the good fat man is amorous! He would have become a priest, but on close examination of the confessionals he saw there was no possibility of seeing, much less kissing a lady penitent through the grating. So he gave up that idea! In his form of faith he can kiss, he says,—he does kiss!—always a holy kiss, of course! He is so ingenuous,—so delightfully frank, it is quite charming!"
They laughed again. Sir Philip looked somewhat disgusted.
"What an old brute he must be!" he said. "Somebody ought to kick him—a holy kick, of course, and therefore more intense and forcible than other kicks."
"You begin, Phil," laughed Lorimer, "and we'll all follow suit. He'll be like that Indian in 'Vathek' who rolled himself into a ball; no one could resist kicking as long as the ball bounded before them,—we, similarly, shall not be able to resist, if Dyceworthy's fat person is once left at our mercy."
"That was a grand bit he told us, Errington," resumed Macfarlane. "Ye should ha' heard him talk aboot his love-affair! . . . the saft jelly of a man that he is, to be making up to ony woman."
At that moment they ran alongside of the Eulalie and threw up their oars.
"Stop a bit," said Errington. "Tell us the rest on board."
The ladder was lowered; they mounted it, and their boat was hauled up to its place.
"Go on!" said Lorimer, throwing himself lazily into a deck arm-chair and lighting a cigar, while the others leaned against the yacht rails and followed his example. "Go on, Sandy—this is fun! Dyceworthy's amours must be amusing. I suppose he's after that ugly wooden block of a woman we saw at his house who is so zealous for the 'true gospel'?"
"Not a bit of it," replied Sandy, with immense gravity. "The auld Silenus has better taste. He says there's a young lass running after him, fit to break her heart aboot him,—puir thing, she must have vera little choice o' men! He hasna quite made up his mind, though he admeets