This was very nice. Annandale felt over-rewarded. Then, shortly, the midday meal ensuing, he conducted mother and daughter to the restaurant, sat with them at table, ordered Ruinart cup and assumed family airs. Later, in a motor, he took Fanny to view the ruins, hummed her over the country and later still procured for her a lemon squash with plenty of raspberries in it, which she consumed on the porch, to the sound of the waves, by the light of the stars.
Meanwhile she had changed her pastel frock for another, which, if a bit rumpled in transit, became her wonderfully well.
Annandale commented on it. “By the way,” he suddenly interrupted himself to remark, “I have more of your things. I stuffed them in my pocket and forgot them entirely. I will go and fetch them now.”
“Don’t bother. Tomorrow will do. What are they, do you remember?”
“Money and jewelry. Rings and pins, I think. I am sure there were pins. One of them stuck in me.”
“Any clothes?”
“Clothes!” Annandale echoed in surprise. “Why, no, are any missing?”
“My mother’s. They were in the room next to mine.”
“The Lord forgive me, I never thought of it.”
“It does not really matter. Only we will have to go to town tomorrow. Mamma has not a stitch.”
“The devil!” muttered Annandale in fierce self-reprobation. “Hang my stupidity. I am a fool.”
“You are nothing of the kind. If it were not for you I would not have a stitch either.”