Adam Johnstones Son | Page 6

have probably come round from Naples to spend a day," said
Clare. "We are sure to have them up here. What a nuisance!"
"Yes. Everybody comes up here who comes to Amalfi at all. I hope
they won't stay long."
"There is no fear of that," answered Clare. "I heard those people saying
the other day that this is not a place where a vessel can lie any length of
time. You know how the sea sometimes breaks on the beach."
Mrs. Bowring and her daughter desired of all things to be quiet. The
visitors who came, stayed a few days at the hotel, and went away again,
were as a rule tourists or semi-invalids in search of a climate, and
anything but noisy. But people coming in a smart English yacht would
probably be society people, and as such Mrs. Bowring wished that they
would keep away. They would behave as though the place belonged to
them, so long as they remained; they would get all the attention of the
proprietor and of the servants for the time being; and they would make
everybody feel shabby and poor.
The Bowrings were poor, indeed, but they were not shabby. It was
perhaps because they were well aware that nobody could mistake them
for average tourists that they resented the coming of a party which
belonged to what is called society. Mrs. Bowring had a strong aversion
to making new acquaintances, and even disliked being thrown into the
proximity of people who might know friends of hers, who might have
heard of her, and who might talk about her and her daughter. Clare said
that her mother's shyness in this respect was almost morbid; but she had
unconsciously caught a little of it herself, and, like her mother, she was
often quite uselessly on her guard against strangers, of the kind whom
she might possibly be called upon to know, though she was perfectly
affable and at her ease with those whom she looked upon as
undoubtedly her social inferiors.
They were not mistaken in their prediction that the party from the yacht
would come up to the Cappuccini. Half an hour after the yacht had
dropped anchor the terrace was invaded. They came up in twos and
threes, nearly a dozen of them, men and women, smart-looking people

with healthy, sun-burnt faces, voices loud from the sea as voices
become on a long voyage--or else very low indeed. By contrast with the
frequenters of Amalfi they all seemed to wear overpoweringly good
clothes and perfectly new hats and caps, and their russet shoes were
resplendent. They moved as though everything belonged to them, from
the wild crests of the hills above to the calm blue water below, and the
hotel servants did their best to foster the agreeable illusion. They all
wanted chairs, and tables, and things to drink, and fruit. One very fair
little lady with hard, restless eyes, and clad in white serge, insisted
upon having grapes, and no one could convince her that grapes were
not ripe in May.
"It's quite absurd!" she objected. "Of course they're ripe! We had the
most beautiful grapes at breakfast at Leo Cairngorm's the other day, so
of course they must have them here. Brook! Do tell the man not to be
absurd!"
"Man!" said the member of the party she had last addressed. "Do not be
absurd!"
"Sì, Signore," replied the black-whiskered Amalfitan servant with
alacrity.
"You see!" cried the little lady triumphantly. "I told you so! You must
insist with these people. You can always get what you want. Brook,
where's my fan?"
She settled upon a straw chair--like a white butterfly. The others
walked on towards the end of the terrace, but the young man whom she
called Brook stood beside her, slowly lighting a cigarette, not five
paces from Mrs. Bowring and Clare.
"I'm sure I don't know where your fan is," he said, with a short laugh,
as he threw the end of the match over the wall.
"Well then, look for it!" she answered, rather sharply. "I'm awfully hot,
and I want it."

He glanced at her before he spoke again.
"I don't know where it is," he said quietly, but there was a shade of
annoyance in his face.
"I gave it to you just as we were getting into the boat," answered the
lady in white. "Do you mean to say that you left it on board?"
"I think you must be mistaken," said the young man. "You must have
given it to somebody else."
"It isn't likely that I should mistake you for any one else--especially
to-day."
"Well--I haven't got it. I'll get you one in the hotel, if you'll have
patience for a moment."
He turned and strode along the terrace towards the