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And Rufus–Rufus turned with a gesture of disgust after the utterance of his half-veiled threat, and spat with savage emphasis upon the sand.

Adam uttered a chuckle that was not wholly unsympathetic, and began deftly to coil the now disentangled rope.

“Do you know what I’d do–if I was in your place?” he said.

Rufus made a sound that was strictly noncommittal.

Adam’s quick eyes flung him a birdlike glance. “Why don’t you come along to The Ship and smoke a pipe with your old father of an evening?” he said. “Once a week’s not enough, not, that is, if you–” He broke off suddenly, caught by a whistle that could not be resisted.

Rufus was regarding the horizon with those brooding eyes of vivid blue.

Abruptly Adam ceased to whistle. “When I was a young chap,” he said, “I didn’t keep my courting for Sundays only. I didn’t dress up, mind you. That weren’t my way. But I’d go along in my jersey and invite her out for a bit of a cruise in the old boat. They likes a cruise, Rufus. You try it, my boy! You try it!”

The rope lay in an orderly coil at his feet, and he straightened himself, rubbing his hands on his trousers. His son remained quite motionless, his eyes still fixed as though he heard not.

Adam stood up beside him, shrewdly alert. He had never before ventured to utter words of counsel on this delicate subject. But having started, he was minded to make a neat job of it. Adam had never been the man to leave a thing half done.

“Go to it, Rufus!” he said, dropping his voice confidentially. “Don’t be afraid to show your mettle! Don’t be crowded out by that curly-topped chap! You’re worth a dozen of him. Just you let her know it, that’s all!”

He dug his hands into his trousers pockets with the words, and turned to go.

Rufus moved then, moved abruptly as one coming out of a dream. His eyes swooped down upon the lithe, active figure at his side. They held a smile–a fiery smile that gleamed meteor-like and passed.

“All right, Adam,” he said in his deep-chested voice.

And with a sidelong nod Adam wheeled and departed. He had done his morning’s work.

CHAPTER II

THE PASSION-FLOWER

“Where’s that Columbine?” said Mrs. Peck.

A gay trill like the call of a blackbird in the dawning answered her. Columbine, with a pink sun-bonnet over her black hair, was watering the flowers in the little conservatory that led out of the drawing-room. She had just come in from the garden, and a gorgeous red rose was pinned upon her breast. Mrs. Peck stood in the doorway and watched her.

The face above the red rose was so lovely that even her matter-of-fact soul had to pause to admire. It was a perpetual wonder to her and a perpetual fascination. The dark, unawakened eyes, the long, perfect brows, the deep, rich colouring, all combined to make such a picture as good Mrs. Peck realised to be superb.

Again the pure contralto trill came from the red lips, and then, with a sudden movement that had in it something of the grace of an alighting bird, Columbine turned, swinging her empty can.

“I’ve promised to take Mr. Knight to the Spear Point Caves by moonlight,” she said. “He’s doing a moonlight study, and he doesn’t know the lie of the quicksand.”

“Sakes alive!” said Mrs. Peck. “What made him ask you? There’s Adam knows every inch of the shore better nor what you do.”

“He didn’t ask,” said Columbine. “I offered. And I know the shore just as well as Adam does, Aunt Liza. Adam himself showed me the lie of the quicksand long ago. I know it like my own hand.”

Mrs. Peck pursed her lips. “I doubt but what you’d better take Adam along too,” she said. “I wouldn’t feel easy about you. And there won’t be any moonlight worth speaking of till after ten. It wouldn’t do for you to be traipsing about alone even with Mr. Knight–nice young gentleman as he be–at that hour.”