On the pebbly bank beside the pool stood a man—Dr. Hansombody—in regimentals. In one hand he held a razor (this it was that had flashed so brightly in the sunlight), in the other her lost stocking. Apparently he had been shaving, kneeling beside the pool and using it for a mirror; for one half of his face was yet lathered, and his haversack lay open on the stones by the water's edge beside his shako and a tin cup under which he had lit a small spirit-lamp; and doubtless, while he knelt, the stream had swept Miss Marty's stocking down to him. He was studying it in bewilderment; which changed to glad surprise as he caught sight of her, aloft between the hazels.
"Hallo!" he challenged. "A happy month to you!"
"Oh, please!" Miss Marty covered her face.
"I'll spread it out to dry on the stones here."
"Please give it back to me. Yes, please, I beg of you!"
"I don't see the sense of that," answered the Doctor. "You can't possibly wear it until it's dry, you know."
"But I'd rather."
"Are you anchored up there? Very well; then I'll bring it up to you in a minute or so. But just wait a little; for you wouldn't ask me to come with half my face unshaven, would you?"
"I can go back.… No, I can't. The bank is too slippery.… But I can look the other way," added Miss Marty, heroically.
"I really don't see why you should," answered the Doctor, as he resumed his kneeling posture. "Now, to my mind," he went on in the intervals of finishing his toilet, "there's no harm in it, and, speaking as a man, it gives one a pleasant sociable feeling."