‘Give me credit, for a short time longer, of being the other Arbuthnot cousin,’ Geoffrey whispered as he left her. ‘Dislike me only as much as you did on that first evening when you gathered roses and heliotropes--for my wife!’ CHAPTER XXII LINDA AS AN ART CRITIC Wednesday morning’s sun rose cloudless. A few persistent fog wreaths lay, even as the day advanced, to leeward of the islands. There was an undue ground-swell, although the surface of the water glistened, smooth as oil, when the high spring tide began to flow in from the Atlantic. None but an inveterate croaker could, however, prophesy actual mischief from signs so trivial. Lord Rex Basire declared aloud--certain of his guests arriving not as the time for departure drew nigh--that the day must have been manufactured expressly for the subaltern’s picnic. No wind, no sea, a nicely-tempered sun above one’s head, a favourable tide--‘What more,’ asked Lord Rex, ‘especially if one add the item of a powerful steamer, could the never satisfied heart of woman require?’ The heart of the most Venerable woman in the island required that there should be neither ground-swell nor fog-bank. At the eleventh hour came an excuse, on the score of weather, from Madame Corbie. The post of chaperon-in-chief stood vacant. Happily for the youthful hosts, Rosie Verschoyle’s mother was faithful--a little white passive lady, accustomed to the iron rule of grown-up daughters, who only stipulated that she should lie down, within reach of smelling-salts, before leaving Guernsey harbour, and neither be spoken to nor looked at until they arrived in smooth water off the coast of France. Old Cassandra, in her scarlet cloak, was to the fore, with cans for fish, with crooks for sea-weed, with a butterfly-net, with stoppered bottles--Cassandra, burthened by a sole regret--that she had left her harp behind. If these young people had wished, in mid ocean, to dance, how willingly would Cassandra have harped to them! Doctor Thorne and his Linda were punctual; so were the trio of pretty de Carteret sisters whom poor Mrs. Verschoyle, according to a trite figure of speech, was to ‘look after.’ And still Rex Basire glanced vainly along the harbour road for the only guests concerning whose advent he cared. The steam was up; the skipper stood ready on the bridge. In another ten minutes the _Princess_ of necessity must quit her moorings, and still the sunshine of Dinah Arbuthnot’s face was wanting. ‘You look frightfully careworn, Lord Rex,’ said Rosie Verschoyle with malicious intonation, as she followed the direction of his glances. Pray, has your lobster salad not arrived? Is your ice melting? Or does some anxiety even yet more tragic disturb your peace?’ ‘There they are--no, by Jove! only the men. Twelve feet two of the Arbuthnot cousins!’ exclaimed Lord Rex, with frank disrespect of Rosie’s sympathy. ‘Is it possible Mrs. Arbuthnot can have thrown us over? The thought is too atrocious!’