"I'm in your hands," she replied, languidly.
He turned-the boat and pulled back along the centre of the lake in silence. Suddenly she bent forward.
"There is something in the water," she said; "something alive."
"It's a—yes, it's a dog," he said. "That is what you saw drop over the steamer. By George! the poor little chap looks in distress: seems as if he were nearly done. Can you steer?" he asked, sharply.
"Oh, yes," she replied, languidly. "Why?"
"Because I'm going for him, and it will help me if you can steer straight for him. He looks nearly played out."
"Why should you trouble—it's a long way off; it will be drowned before you can get to it," she said.
"I'll have to go for it anyway," he said, cheerfully; and he began to row hard.
Distance is deceptive on a lake, and the dog was farther off than they thought; but Stafford put his back into it as hard as he had done in his racing days, and Maude Falconer leant back and watched him with interest, and something even stronger than interest, in her masked eyes. He had turned up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, and the muscles on his arms were standing out under the strain, his lips were set tightly, and there was the man's frown of determination on his brow.
"It has gone down: it's no use," she said. "You may as well stop and rest."