Hunt-Goring, stepping lightly in canvas shoes, came airily forward over the sand, and bowed low.
"I am the _deus ex machina_," he said.

"The yacht is mine--and entirely at your service." Olga's face was crimson.

She got quickly to her feet and stood stiffly silent.
Hunt-Goring was looking remarkably elegant, attired in white drill with a yachting cap which he carried in his hand.
"I seem to have come at an opportune moment," he said.

"Really, the fates are more than kind.

The yacht is making for Brethaven jetty to take me on board.