I lay and thought.  Then, with a pleasant leisure that soothed my nerves a little, I dressed, and went down to breakfast in the quaint dining-room hung from floor to ceiling with china brought years ago from the far East by a Clovelly sailor.  As I sat over my egg and toast Sally came in, pale, but sweet and crisp in the white that Southern girls wear most.  There was a constraint over us for the reckoning that we knew was coming.  Each felt guilty toward the other and the result was a formal politeness.  So it was a relief when, just at the last bit of toast, Anne burst in, all staccato notes of suppressed excitement.

“Cousin Mary!  Sally!  Sir Richard Leigh is here!  He’s there!” nodding over her shoulder.  “He walked up with me—­he wants to see you both.  But”—­her voice dropped to an intense whisper—­“he has asked to see Miss Walton first—­wants to speak to her alone!  What does he mean?” Anne was in a tremendous flutter, and it was plain that wild ideas were coursing through her.  “You are my chaperone, of course, but what can he want to see you for alone—­Cousin Mary?”

I could not imagine, either, yet it seemed quite possible that this beautiful creature had taken a susceptible man by storm, even so suddenly.  I laid my napkin on the table and stood up.

“The chaperone is ready to meet the fairy prince,” I said, and we went across together to the little drawing-room.

It was a bit dark as Anne opened the door and I saw first only a man’s figure against the window opposite, but as he turned quickly and came toward us, I caught my breath, and stared, and gasped and stared again.  Then the words came tumbling over each other before Anne could speak.

“Cary!” I cried.  “What are you doing here—­in those clothes?”

Poor Anne!  She thought I had made some horrid mistake, and had disgraced her.  But I forgot Anne entirely for the familiar brown eyes that were smiling, pleading into mine, and in a second he had taken my hand and bending over, with a pretty touch of stateliness, had kissed it, and the charm that no one could resist had me fast in its net.

“Miss Walton!  You will forgive me?  You were always good to me—­you won’t lay it up against me that I’m Richard Leigh and not a picturesque Devonshire sailor!  You won’t be angry because I deceived you!  The devil tempted me suddenly and I yielded, and I’m glad.  Dear devil!  I never should have known either of you if I had not.”

There were more of the impetuous sentences that I cannot remember, and somewhere among them Anne gathered that she was not the point of them, and left the room like a slighted but still reigning princess.  It was too bad that any one should feel slighted, but if it had to be, it was best that it should be Anne.

Then my sailor told me his side of the story; how Sally’s tip for the rescue of her hat had showed him what we took him to be; how her question about a boat had suggested playing the part; how he had begun it half for the fun of it and half, even then, for the interest the girl had roused in him—­and he put in a pretty speech for the chaperone just there, the clever young man!  He told me how his yacht had come sooner than he had expected, and that he had to give up one afternoon with her was so severe a trial that he knew then how much Sally meant to him.