She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. He and her father shook hands manfully. Ann Veronica said she didn’t care. Sanguine they were not. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. "Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours.
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