Salthaven | Page 7

been engaged three weeks now, and every time I
spend a few minutes with Cecilia--Miss Willett--I have to tell a lie
about it."
"You do it very well," said his friend. "Very well indeed."
"And Susanna regards me as the most truthful man that ever breathed,"

continued Mr. Truefitt.
"You've got a truthful look about you," said the captain. "If I didn't
know you so well I should have thought the same."
Unconscious of Mr. Truefitt's regards he rose and, leaning his arm on
the fence at the bottom of the garden, watched the river.
"Miss Willett thinks she might marry again," said Mr. Truefitt, picking
up his pipe and joining him. "She'd make an excellent wife for
anybody--anybody."
The captain assented with a nod.
"Nobody could have a better wife," said Mr. Truefitt.
The captain, who was watching an outward-bound barque, nodded
again, absently.
"She's affectionate," pursued Mr. Truefitt, "a wonderful housekeeper, a
good conversationalist, a good cook, always punctual, always at home,
always--"
The captain, surprised at a fluency so unusual, turned and eyed him in
surprise. Mr. Truefitt broke off abruptly, and, somewhat red in the face,
expressed his fear that the barque would take the mud if she were not
careful. Captain Trimblett agreed and, to his friend's relief, turned his
back on him to watch her more closely. It was a comfortable position,
with his arms on the fence, and he retained it until Mr. Truefitt had
returned to the summer-house.
[Illustration: It was a comfortable position 034]
CHAPTER IV
MR. ROBERT VYNER had been busy all the afternoon, and the clock
still indicated fifteen minutes short of the time at which he had intended
to leave. He leaned back in his chair, and, yielding to the slight rotatory

movement of that active piece of furniture, indulged in the first twirl
for three days. Bassett or no Bassett, it was exhilarating, and, having
gone to the limit in one direction, he obtained impetus by a clutch at the
table and whirled back again. A smothered exclamation from the door
arrested his attention, and putting on the break with some suddenness
he found himself looking into the pretty, astonished eyes of Joan
Hartley.
"I beg your pardon," she said, in confusion. "I thought it was my
father."
"It--it got stuck," said Mr. Vyner, springing up and regarding the chair
with great disfavour. "I was trying to loosen it. I shall have to send it
back, I'm afraid; it's badly made. There's no cabinet-making
nowadays."
Miss Hartley retreated to the doorway.
"I am sorry; I expected to find my father here," she said. "It used to be
his room."
"Yes, it was his room," said the young man. "If you will come in and sit
down I will send for him."
"It doesn't matter, thank you," said Joan, still standing by the door. "If
you will tell me where his room is now, I will go to him."
"He--he is in the general office," said Robert Vyner, slowly.
Miss Hartley bit her lip and her eyes grew sombre.
"Don't go," said Mr. Vyner, eagerly. "I'll go and fetch him. He is
expecting you."
"Expecting me?" said the girl. "Why, he didn't know I was coming."
"Perhaps I misunderstood him," murmured Mr. Vyner. "Pressure of
business," he said, vaguely, indicating a pile of papers on his table.
"Hardly know what people do say to me."

He pushed a comfortable easy-chair to the window, and the girl, after a
moment's hesitation, seated herself and became interested in the life
outside. Robert Vyner, resuming his seat, leaned back and gazed at her
in frank admiration.
"Nice view down the harbour, isn't it?" he said, after a long pause.
Miss Hartley agreed--and sat admiring it.
"Salthaven is a pretty place altogether, I think," continued Robert. "I
was quite glad to come back to it. I like the town and I like the people.
Except for holidays I haven't been in the place since I was ten."
Miss Hartley, feeling that some comment was expected, said, "Indeed!"
"You have lived here all your life, I suppose?" said the persevering
Robert.
"Practically," said Miss Hartley.
Mr. Vyner stole a look at her as she sat sideways by the window.
Conscience and his visitor's manner told him that he ought to go for her
father; personal inclination told him that there was no hurry. For the
first time in his experience the office became most desirable place in
the world. He wanted to sit still and look at her, and for some time,
despite her restlessness, obeyed his inclinations. She turned at last to
ask for her father, and in the fraction of a second he was immersed in a
bundle of papers. Knitted brows and pursed lips testified to his
absorption. He seized a pen and