It was early yet, scarcely seven, but clearly the Captain was already up and out. Ernie stood in the door, admiring the lines of the girl's big young figure, the curve of her neck and shoulders and the glossy black of her hair. He made a little whistling sound.
Ruth turned, saw who it was, and beckoned to him.
The window looked out over the lawns and foreshore on to the sea, brisk and broken in the sun.
The tide was brimming, and swinging in, green-hued, white-tipped, and splashed with shadows.
The bathing-raft was wobbling in the short chop. There were no bobbing heads about it now. It was too early in the season, too early in the morning, and the sea was too rough. But a figure, white in the sun, balanced on the unsteady raft, then shot arrow-wise into the sea.
Another moment and a black head bounced up out of the water. Then there was the flash of an arm, rising and falling swiftly, as the swimmer strode away for the horizon.
"Straight out to sea!" cried Ernie. "That's the Captain!—Buffet em!"
"I wish I was a man," mused Ruth. "Go in like that—just as you are."
She took up her duster, and resumed her work. The bed was already made.
"You're early at it," said Ernie, glancing round.