Might not that tough and somewhat clumsy body, that crafty, jovial, yet
non-committal countenance, have transferred themselves straight from the
pages of Geoffrey Chaucer into nineteenth-century life? Here, was a
master of primitive knowledge and of arts not taught in modern Board (or
any other) Schools; a merry fellow too, who could, as Tom divined, when
company and circumstances allowed, be broadly, unprintably humorous.

So, in this last connection perhaps, it was just as well that Damaris
still appeared somewhat implacable. Coming on board she had passed
Jennifer--who rowed amidships--and gone right forward, putting as wide a
distance as conditions permitted between her cousin and herself. Now, as
she sat on a pile of red-brown seine nets in the bow of the boat, she
kept her face averted, looking away down the cool liquid highway, and
presenting to his observation a graceful, white-clad but eminently
discouraging back. Her attitude repelled rather than invited advances, so
at least Tom, watching her, certainly thought. This justified his not
following her but staying where he was, and leaving her to herself.
Whereupon annoyance again beset him; for it was very little to his credit
to have mismanaged his dealings with her and alienated her sympathies
thus. With her, it was very evident, he had not been at all a success.
And it pricked his young vanity very shrewdly not to be a success.

From these unsatisfactory reflections William Jennifer's voice, prefaced
by a warning cough, recalled him.

"Making any long stay in these parts, sir?" he enquired.

And when Tom explained that a few hours from now would witness the
termination of his visit, and that, in all probability, many years of
absence from England lay ahead--