“What?”

The quick close-clipped question cutting his own words silenced him.  And, as he made no reply, she continued to twist the red kerchief around her hair, and to knot it securely, her doubtful glance returning once or twice to his amused face.

When all had been made fast and secure she rested one arm on the gunwale and dropped the other across her knees, relaxing in every muscle a moment before departure.  And, somehow, to Hamil, the unconscious grace of the attitude suggested the “Resting Hermes”—­that sculptured concentration of suspended motion.

“You had better not go just yet,” he said, pointing seaward.

She also had been watching the same thing that he was now looking at, a thin haze which again became apparent over the Gulf-stream.

“Do you think it will thicken?” she asked.

“I don’t know; you had a close call last time—­”

“There was no danger.”

“I think there was danger enough; you were apparently headed straight out to sea—­”

“I heard a ship’s bell and swam toward it, and when the fog lifted I found you.”

“Why didn’t you swim toward the shore?  You could hear the surf—­and a dog barking.”

“I”—­she turned pink with annoyance—­“I suppose I was a trifle tired—­if you insist.  I realised that I had lost my bearings; that was all.  Then I heard a ship’s bell....  Then the mist lifted and I saw you—­but I’ve explained all that before. Look at that exasperating fog!”

Vexation silenced her; she sat restless for a few seconds, then: 

“What do you think I had better do?”

“I think you had better try to endure me for a few minutes longer.  I’m safer than the fog.”

But his amusement left her unresponsive, plainly occupied with her own ideas.

Again the tent of vapour stretched its magic folds above the boat and around it; again the shoreward shapes faded to phantoms and disappeared.

He spoke again once or twice, but her brief replies did not encourage him.  At first, he concluded that her inattention and indifference must be due to self-consciousness; then, slightly annoyed, he decided they were not.  And, very gradually, he began to realise that the unconventional, always so attractive to the casual young man, did not interest her at all, even enough to be aware of it or of him.

This cool unconsciousness of self, of him, of a situation which to any wholesome masculine mind contained the germs of humour, romance, and all sorts of amusing possibilities, began to be a little irksome to him.  And still her aloofness amused him, too.

“Do you know of any decorous reason why we should not talk to each other occasionally during this fog?” he asked.

She turned her head, considered him inattentively, then turned it away again.

“No,” she said indifferently; “what did you desire to say?”

Resting on his oars, the unrequited smile still forlornly edging his lips, he looked at his visitor, who was staring into the fog, lost in her own reflections; and never a glimmer in her eyes, never a quiver of lid or lash betrayed any consciousness of his gaze or even of his presence.  And he continued to inspect her with increasing annoyance.