“Better wait until we have broken the back of the work,” answered Fordham, who knew, however, that no feminine hand was destined to handle the oar that day.
“Bless my soul, but how chilly it has turned,” said General Wyatt.
It had—and more. The boat no longer slid smoothly over the glassy water. Something of a swell had arisen.
“By Jove! If only we had a sail we should slip along sweetly. There’s quite a little breeze getting up,” said Philip, resting a moment on his oars. “Well, we haven’t, so it’s of no use wishing. But how about another song? We want invigorating. Does any one know the Eton fourth of June song?”
It happened that nobody did, and Philip remarking that that inspiriting chorus was a thin affair if rendered as a solo, was urgently assured that he never was more mistaken in his life and as urgently pressed to give practical proof of the same. Then the disputants abruptly paused. For Jules Berthod was resting on his oars, and seemed deep in a hurried consultation with Fordham, who, it will be remembered, now occupied the middle seat.
“Nom de nom!” he growled. “Ça arrive—ça arrive. Je l’attendais bien—allez!”
“What is the matter?” exclaimed Marian Ottley, with a shade of alarm. “Is it going to be rough, or what?”
A heavy lumping swell was now running, into which the boat rose and fell with a plash and an angry hiss, as each well-timed, powerful stroke forced her through. But a marvellous and magical change had come over the whole scene. The great curtain of cloud seemed now to spread over half the lake, and was gliding on, on. It stole up over the Savoy mountains, and each hitherto shining summit now reared itself dark and threatening against the inky veil. It had thrown out an advance guard of flying scud, which already partially enshrouded the peaks and ridges dominating the Rhone Valley to the eastward, and still it crept on. The air was stirred in fitful puffs, moaning and chill, and the sun had disappeared. The sudden metamorphosis from golden unclouded afternoon to the brooding lurid gloom of half day was inexpressibly awesome—almost appalling.
“Do you mind taking a ‘trick at the wheel,’ General Wyatt?” said Fordham. “We shall want some masterly steering directly.”
“No, uncle. I can do it better than you,” objected Alma, firmly. “That’s one advantage my riverside dwelling has left me—handiness with the tiller ropes.”