never have thought it. She seems a sociable, bright sort of
girl. Don't you want to talk to her? I know you do. I see it in your
face. You think it will be irksome for me, but, never mind, we need not
stay long. I must not be selfish nor indulge in the wish to keep you all
to myself. I know you want to talk to Miss Meadowsweet, and so you
shall,--I _won't_ have you balked."

Here he raised his voice.

"Mrs. Bell, will you steer over to Miss Meadowsweet's boat? Miss Matty,
here, has something to say to her."

Not an earthly thing had Matty to communicate to her friend, but the
captain had managed to put the matter in such a light that she could
only try to look pleased, and pretend to acquiesce.

"Oh, yes, she had always lots to say to her darling Bee," she murmured.
And then, somehow, her poor little silly spirits went down, and she had
a sensation of feeling rather flat.

As will be seen by the foregoing remarks, Captain Bertram had a rare
gift for making killing and funny speeches.

Matty had over and over pronounced him to be the most brilliantly witty
person she had ever in the whole course of her life encountered. But his
talent as a supposed wit was nothing at all to the cleverness with which
he now managed to keep the large white boat by the side of the small
green one for the remainder of the evening. It was entirely managed by
the superior will of one person, for certainly none of the Bells wished
for this propinquity.

Mrs. Bell, who like a watchful hen-mother was apparently seeing nothing,
and yet all the time was tenderly brooding over the little chick whom
she hoped was soon about to take flight from the parent nest, saw at a
glance that her chick looked nothing at all beside that superior chicken
of Mrs. Meadowsweet's. For Matty's little nose was sadly burnt, and one
lock of her thin limp hair was flying not too picturesquely in the
breeze. And her home-cut jacket was by no means remarkably becoming, and
one of her small, uncovered hands--why _would_ Matty take her
gloves off?--was burnt red, not brown by the sun. Beatrice, on the
contrary, looked as she always did, trim and neat, and bright and
gracious. She had on the gray cashmere dress which she had worn when
Captain Bertram first began to lose his heart to her, and over this,
tonight, she had twisted a long bright crimson scarf. Into her white
hat, too, she had pinned a great bunch of crimson roses, so that,
altogether, Beatrice in her pretty