“I’ve been in; I was drying my hair.”

He glanced up, smiling; then, as the wet kerchief against his forehead reddened, he started to rise, but she took it from his fingers, hastened to the water’s edge, rinsed it, and brought it back cold and wet.

“Please sit perfectly still,” she said; “a girl likes to do this sort of thing for a man.”

“If I’d known that,” he laughed, “I’d have had it happen frequently.”

She only shook her head, watching him unsmiling.  But the pulse in her had become very quiet again.

“It’s no end of fun in that canoe,” he observed.  “Gladys Orchil and I work it beautifully.”

“I saw you did,” she nodded.

“Oh!  Where were you?  Why didn’t you come?”

“I don’t know.  Gladys called you.  I was waiting for you—­expecting you.  Then Gladys called you.”

“I didn’t see you,” he said.

“I didn’t call you,” she observed serenely.  And, after a moment:  “Do you see only those who hail you, Captain Selwyn?”

He laughed:  “In this life’s cruise a good sailor always answers a friendly hail.”

“So do I,” she said.  “Please hail me after this—­because I don’t care to take the initiative.  If you neglect to do it, don’t count on my hailing you . . . any more.”

The stain spread on the kerchief; once more she went to the water’s edge, rinsed it, and returned with it.

“I think it has almost stopped bleeding,” she remarked as he laid the cloth against his forehead.  “You frightened me, Captain Selwyn.  I am not easily frightened.”

“I know it.”

“Did you know I was frightened?”

“Of course I did.”

“Oh,” she said, vexed, “how could you know it?  I didn’t do anything silly, did I?”

“No; you very sensibly called me Philip.  That’s how I knew you were frightened.”

A slow bright colour stained face and neck.

“So I was silly, after all,” she said, biting at her under lip and trying to meet his humorous gray eyes with unconcern.  But her face was burning now, and, aware of it, she turned her gaze resolutely on the sea.  Also, to her further annoyance, her heart awoke, beating unwarrantably, absurdly, until the dreadful idea seized her that he could hear it.  Disconcerted, she stood up—­a straight youthful figure against the sea.  The wind blowing her dishevelled hair across her cheeks and shoulders, fluttered her clinging skirts as she rested both hands on her hips and slowly walked toward the water’s edge.

“Shall we swim?” he asked her.

She half turned and looked around and down at him.

“I’m all right; it’s stopped bleeding.  Shall we?” he inquired, looking up at her.  “You’ve got to wash your hair again, anyhow.”

She said, feeling suddenly stupid and childish, and knowing she was speaking stupidly:  “Would you not rather join Gladys again?  I thought that—­that—­”