Then, fishing in
the soaked pockets of his knickerbockers, he produced a pair of smart
pince-nez, which he put on, and then gazed up at her.
"Oh!" she said, with a quick, indrawn breath, "you _are_ attractive!"
At that he turned becomingly scarlet.
Leaning on one lovely, bare arm, burnished hair clustering against her
cheeks, she continued to survey him in delighted approval which sometimes
made him squirm inwardly, sometimes almost intoxicated him.
"To think," she murmured, "that _I_ lured _you_ out here!"
"I _am_ thinking about it," he said.
She laid her head on one side, inspecting him with frankest approval.
"I wonder," she said, "what your name is. I am Flavilla Carr."
"Not one of the Carr triplets!"
"Yes--but," she added quickly, "I'm not married. Are you?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" he said hastily. "I'm Henry Kingsbury, of Pebble Point,
Northport----"
"Master and owner of the beautiful but uncertain _Sappho?_ Oh, tell me,
_are_ you the man who has tipped over so many times in Long Island Sound?
Because I--I adore a man who has the pluck to continue to capsize every
day or two."
"Then," he said, "you can safely adore me, for I am that yachtsman who
has fallen off the _Sappho_ more times than the White Knight fell off his
horse."
"I--I _do_ adore you!" she exclaimed impulsively.
"Of course, you d-d-don't mean that," he stammered, striving to smile.
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