must be wrong. Perhaps I am. Then so must you, because you give less
than I do.

There is but one way to justify yourself, and that is to give up what
you are hoarding--what you prize most highly--your solitude. We want
you at "Wake Robin," Mr. Markham. Will you come to dine and stay the
night? By so doing you will at least show an amiable disposition,
which is more to the point than all the philosophy in the world. We
are very informal and dine at eight.

I am sure that if you disappoint us Madame Tcherny, who is already
tired of us all, will perish of _ennui_.

Very cordially yours,
Hermia Challoner

Markham read the note through and turned toward the cabin for pen and
paper.

"Will you moor the launch and come ashore?"

"Oh, no, sir," said the man, tinkering with the engine, "I'll wait for
you here. Miss Challoner said that I was to wait."

When Markham reached the bungalow he remembered suddenly that he had no
ink, pen--or indeed paper, and yet a verbal reply would hardly be
courteous. He stood in the doorway puzzling a moment and then went
over to a trunk in the corner, opened it and began pitching its
contents about. He straightened at last, put some garments on the bed
and looked at them with a ruminative eye.