She was wearing a Panama, and she carried a sketching block and camp
stool.
"Good evening," I said.
"Good evening," said she.
It is curious how different the same words can sound when spoken by
different people. My "good evening" might have been that of a man with
a particularly guilty conscience caught in the act of doing something
more than usually ignoble. She spoke like a somewhat offended angel.
"It's a lovely evening," I went on pluckily.
"Very."
"The sunset!"
"Yes."
"Er--"
She raised a pair of blue eyes, devoid of all expression save a faint
suggestion of surprise, gazed through me for a moment at some object a
couple of thousand miles away, and lowered them again, leaving me with
a vague feeling that there was something wrong with my personal
appearance.
Very calmly she moved to the edge of the cliff, arranged her camp
stool, and sat down. Neither of us spoke a word. I watched her while
she filled a little mug with water from a little bottle, opened her
paint box, selected a brush, and placed her sketching block in
position.
She began to paint.
Now, by all the laws of good taste, I should before this have made a
dignified exit. When a lady shows a gentleman that his presence is
unwelcome, it is up to him, as an American friend of mine pithily
observed to me on one occasion, to get busy and chase himself, and
see if he can make the tall timber in two jumps. In other words, to
retire. It was plain that I was not regarded as an essential ornament
of this portion of the Ware Cliff. By now, if I had been the perfect
gentleman, I ought to have been a quarter of a mile away.
But there is a definite limit to what a man can do. I remained.
The sinking sun flung a carpet of gold across the sea. Phyllis's hair
was tinged with it. Little waves tumbled lazily on the beach below.
Except for the song of a distant blackbird running through its
repertory before retiring for the night, everything was silent.
Especially Phyllis.
She sat there, dipping and painting and dipping again, with never a
word for me--standing patiently and humbly behind her.
"Miss Derrick," I said.
She half turned her head.
"Yes?"
One of the most valuable things which a lifetime devoted to sport
teaches a man is "never play the goose game." Bold attack is the
safest rule in nine cases out of ten, wherever you are and whatever
you may be doing. If you are batting, attack the ball. If you are
boxing, get after your man. If you are talking, go to the point.
"Why won't you speak to me?" I said.
"I don't understand you."
"Why won't you speak to me?"
"I think you know, Mr. Garnet."
"It is because of that boat accident?"
"Accident!"
"Episode," I amended.
She went on painting in silence. From where I stood I could see her
profile. Her chin was tilted. Her expression was determined.
"Is it?" I said.
"Need we discuss it?"
"Not if you do not wish."