“No.  That’s all right!  ‘All’s well that ends well.’  You want a few lessons with the sculls, Miss Falconer, and you’d make a splendid boat-woman.  Perhaps you’d let me give you one or two?”

“Thank you; yes,” she said; and to his surprise with less of her usual half-scornful languor.

“Here’s the tea.  Any particular kind of cake you fancy?”

She said that the cakes would do, and poured out the tea; but he put some milk into his saucer and gave some to the terrier, slowly, methodically, and with a tenderness and gentleness which was not lost upon the girl who watched him covertly before paying any attention to his own tea.

“I wonder whether you could stand, my little man,” he said, and he put the terrier on the ground.

It stood upright and shivering for a moment, then it put its tiny paws on Stafford’s knee and looked up into his face appealingly.  “Not up to your usual form just yet, eh?” said Stafford, and he picked it up gently and put it on his knee.

Maude Falconer looked at him.

“Give it to me,” she said.  “Men have no lap.  He’ll be more comfortable with me.”

“But he’s wet still,” he said.  “He’ll spoil that pretty dress of yours.”

“My pretty dress was made to be spoiled,” she said, “Give it to me, please, and get your tea.”

“Do you mean it?” he asked, with a surprise which made her flush with resentment, and something like shame.

For reply, she bent forward, took the dog from him, and tried to settle it on her lap; but the mite looked piteously at Stafford and whined, its big eyes imploring him to let it come back.

But Stafford stroked it and bade it sit still, and presently it curled itself up.

“It has gone to sleep,” said Maude.  “It has soon forgotten its trouble.”

“It’s a way dogs have,” said Stafford.  “May I smoke?  George! what a lovely afternoon!”

She glanced at him as he leant back in his chair, his long legs stretched out and crossed before him.

“You look happy,” she said, with a faint smile.

“Oh, I am,” he said, with a sudden flush and a start; for now the dog was off his mind, it had instantly swung back to Ida.

“It’s the reward of a generous action,” she said, and again, the mocking note was absent from her voice.

Stafford laughed.

“That’s putting it rather high,” he said.

They sat on in silence:  Stafford thinking of Ida, Maude looking down at the sleeping dog, and thinking that only a few minutes ago it had been lying in the bosom of the man who sat beside her:  the man whom she had backed herself to fool; but for whom a strange sensation of admiration—­and was it a subtle fear?—­was stirring within her.

“By George! we must be going!” he said, suddenly.

When they got to the boat he proposed to roll the terrier in his coat, but Maude shook her head.