“Isn’t it disgraceful?” he suggested.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “they’ll never know me when I get home!”
It was in such wise that they talked, endlessly exchanging trifles of comment. Anna thought to herself: “Is this lovemaking?” It could not be, she decided; but she infinitely preferred it so. She was content. She wished for nothing better than this apparently frivolous and irresponsible dalliance. She felt that if Mynors were to be tender, sentimental, and serious, she would become wretchedly self-conscious.
They re-embarked, and, skirting the shore, gradually came round to the beach. Up above them, on the cliffs, they could discern the industrious figure of Beatrice, with easel and sketching-umbrella, and all the panoply of the earnest amateur.
“Do you sketch?” she asked him.
“Not I!” he said scornfully.
“Don’t you believe in that sort of thing, then?”
“It’s all right for professional artists,” he said; “people who can paint. But—Well, I suppose it’s harmless for the amateurs—finds them something to do.”
“I wish I could paint, anyway,” she retorted.
“I’m glad you can’t,” he insisted.
When they got back to the cliffs, towards teatime, Beatrice was still painting, but in a new spot. She seemed entirely absorbed in her work, and did not hear their approach.
“Let’s creep up and surprise her,” Mynors whispered. “You go first, and put your hands over her eyes.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Beatrice, blindfolded; “how horrid you are, Henry! I know who it is—I know who it is.”
“You just don’t, then,” said Henry, now in front of her. Anna removed her hands.
“Well, you told her to do it, I’m sure of that. And I was getting on so splendidly! I shan’t do another stroke now.”
“That’s right,” said Henry. “You’ve wasted quite enough time as it is.”
Beatrice pouted. She was evidently annoyed with both of them. She looked from one to the other, jealous of their mutual understanding and agreement. Mr. and Mrs. Sutton issued from the house, and the five stood chatting till tea was ready; but the shadow remained on Beatrice’s face. Mynors made several attempts to laugh it away, and at dusk these two went for a stroll to Port St. Mary. They returned in a state of deep intimacy. During supper Beatrice was consciously and elaborately angelic, and there was that in her voice and eyes, when sometimes she addressed Mynors, which almost persuaded Anna that he might once have loved his cousin. At night, in the bedroom, Anna imagined that she could detect in Beatrice’s attitude the least shade of condescension. She felt hurt, and despised herself for feeling hurt.
So the days passed, without much variety, for the Suttons were not addicted to excursions. Anna was profoundly happy; she had forgotten care. She agreed to every suggestion for amusement; each moment had its pleasure, and this pleasure was quite independent of the thing done; it sprang from all activities and idlenesses. She was at special pains to fraternise with Mr. Sutton. He made an interesting companion, full of facts about strata, outcrops, and breaks, his sole weakness being the habit of quoting extremely sentimental scraps of verse when walking by the seashore. He frankly enjoyed Anna’s attention to him, and took pride in her society. Mrs. Sutton, that simple heart, devoted herself to the attainment of absolute quiescence. She had come for a rest, and she achieved her purpose. Her kindliness became for the time passive instead of active. Beatrice was a changing quantity in the domestic equation. Plainly her parents had spoiled their only child, and she had frequent fits of petulance, particularly with Mynors; but her energy and spirits atoned well for these. As for Mynors, he behaved exactly as on the first Monday. He spent many hours alone with Anna—(Beatrice appeared to insist on leaving them together, even while showing a faint resentment at the loneliness thus entailed on herself)—and his attitude was such as Anna, ignorant of the ways of brothers, deemed a brother might adopt.
On the second Monday an incident occurred. In the afternoon Mr. Sutton had asked Beatrice to go with him to Port St. Mary, and she had refused on the plea that the light was of a suitable grey for painting. Mr. Sutton had slipped off alone, unseen by Anna and Henry, who had meant to accompany him in place of Beatrice. Before tea, while Anna, Beatrice and Henry were awaiting the meal in the parlour, Mynors referred to the matter.
“I hope you’ve done some decent work this afternoon,” he said to Beatrice.
“I haven’t,” she replied shortly; “I haven’t done a stroke.”
“But you said you were going to paint hard!”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Then why couldn’t you have gone to Port St. Mary, instead of breaking your fond father’s heart by a refusal?”
“He didn’t want me, really.”
Anna interjected: “I think he did, Bee.”
“You know you’re very self-willed, not to say selfish,” Mynors said.
“No, I’m not,” Beatrice protested seriously. “Am I, Anna?”
“Well—” Anna tried to think of a diplomatic pronouncement. Beatrice took offence at the hesitation.
“Oh! You two are bound to agree, of course. You’re as thick as thieves.”
She gazed steadily out of the window, and there was a silence. Mynors’ lip curled.
“Oh! There’s the loveliest yacht just coming into the bay,” Beatrice cried suddenly, in a tone of affected enthusiasm. “I’m going out to sketch it.” She snatched up her hat and sketching-block, and ran hastily from the room. The other two saw her sitting on the grass, sharpening a pencil. The yacht, a large and luxurious craft, had evidently come to anchor for the night.
Mrs. Sutton arrived from her bedroom, and then Mr. Sutton also came in. Tea was served. Mynors called to Beatrice through the window and received no reply. Then Mrs. Sutton summoned her.
“Go on with your tea,” Beatrice shouted, without turning her head. “Don’t wait for me. I’m bound to finish this now.”
“Fetch her, Anna dear,” said Mrs. Sutton after another interval. Anna rose to obey, half-fearful.
“Aren’t you coming in, Bee?” She stood by the sketcher’s side, and observed nothing but a few meaningless lines on the block.
“Didn’t
