Christopher shrank lower behind a mossy stone, and wildly hoped that his unconcealable white flannels might be mistaken for the stem of a fallen birch.
It had come nearer, and Christopher anticipated the inevitable discovery by getting up and speaking.
“I’m afraid she’s not here, Miss Mullen. She has not been here for half an hour at least.” He did not feel bound to add that when he first sat down by the pool, he had heard Miss Fitzpatrick’s and Mr. Hawkins’ voices in high and agreeable altercation on the opposite side of the island to that taken by the rest of the party.
The asperity that had been discernible in Miss Mullen’s summons to her cousin vanished at once.
“My goodness me! Mr. Dysart! To think of your being here all the time, ‘Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife!’ Here I am hunting for that naughty girl to tell her to come and help to make tea, instead of letting your poor sister have all the trouble by herself.”
Charlotte was rather out of breath, and looked hot and annoyed, in spite of the smile with which she lubricated her remark.
“Oh, my sister is used to that sort of thing,” said Christopher, “and Miss Hope-Drummond is there to help, isn’t she?”
Charlotte had seated herself on a rock, and was fanning herself with her pocket-handkerchief; evidently going to make herself agreeable, Christopher thought, with an irritability that lost no detail of her hand’s ungainly action.
“I don’t think Miss Hope-Drummond is much in the utilitarian line,” she said, with a laugh that was as slighting as she dared to make it. “Hers is the purely ornamental, I should imagine. Now, I will say for poor Francie, if she was there, no one would work harder than she would, and, though I say it that shouldn’t, I think she’s ornamental too.”
“Oh, highly ornamental,” said Christopher politely. “I don’t think there can be any doubt about that.”
“You’re very good to say so,” replied Charlotte effusively; “but I can tell you, Mr. Dysart, that poor child has had to make herself useful as well as ornamental before now. From what she tells me I suspect there were few things she didn’t have to put her hand to before she came down to me here.”
“Really!” said Christopher, as politely as before, “that was very hard luck.”