“I have loved your daughter,” I said rapidly, “ever since I first saw her . . .”

“And he’s a capital chap,” interjected Ukridge.  “One of the best.  Known him for years.  You’ll like him.”

“I learned last night that she loved me.  But she will not marry me without your consent.  Stretch your arms out straight from the shoulders and fill your lungs well and you can’t sink.  So I have come this morning to ask for your consent.”

“Give it!” advised Ukridge.  “Couldn’t do better.  A very sound fellow.  Pots of money, too.  At least he will have when he marries.”

“I know we have not been on the best of terms lately.  For Heaven’s sake don’t try to talk, or you’ll sink.  The fault,” I said, generously, “was mine . . .”

“Well put,” said Ukridge.

“But when you have heard my explanation, I am sure you will forgive me.  There, I told you so.”

He reappeared some few feet to the left.  I swam up, and resumed.

“When you left us so abruptly after our little dinner-party——­”

“Come again some night,” said Ukridge cordially.  “Any time you’re passing.”

" . . . you put me in a very awkward position.  I was desperately in love with your daughter, and as long as you were in the frame of mind in which you left I could not hope to find an opportunity of revealing my feelings to her.”

“Revealing feelings is good,” said Ukridge approvingly.  “Neat.”

“You see what a fix I was in, don’t you?  Keep your arms well out.  I thought for hours and hours, to try and find some means of bringing about a reconciliation.  You wouldn’t believe how hard I thought.”

“Got as thin as a corkscrew,” said Ukridge.

“At last, seeing you fishing one morning when I was on the Cob, it struck me all of a sudden . . .”

“You know how it is,” said Ukridge.

" . . . all of a sudden that the very best way would be to arrange a little boating accident.  I was confident that I could rescue you all right.”

Here I paused, and he seized the opportunity to curse me—­briefly, with a wary eye on an incoming wavelet.

“If it hadn’t been for the inscrutable workings of Providence, which has a mania for upsetting everything, all would have been well.  In fact, all was well till you found out.”

“Always the way,” said Ukridge sadly.  “Always the way.”

“You young blackguard!”

He managed to slip past me, and made for the shore.

“Look at the thing from the standpoint of a philosopher, old horse,” urged Ukridge, splashing after him.  “The fact that the rescue was arranged oughtn’t to matter.  I mean to say, you didn’t know it at the time, so, relatively, it was not, and you were genuinely saved from a watery grave and all that sort of thing.”