It sounded so terribly commonplace and insufficient that she made an effort and added:
"It was very kind of you to take so much trouble. How wet you must be! You must not stand about."
Yorke smiled, and knocked the hair from his forehead and wrung his shirt sleeves.
"It's all right," he said. "It was my fault. If I hadn't chucked the piece of wood he wouldn't have gone in. He hasn't come to any harm apparently."
"Oh, no, no. He's all right," said Leslie. "He can swim very well when the tide is coming in, but when it is going out it is too strong for him, and—he would have been drowned if you had not gone after him," and her eyes dropped.
"Poor little chap," said Yorke, putting on his coat. "That would never have done, would it, doggie?"
"It is a very dangerous place for bathing," said Leslie. "The current is very strong, and that is why I called out."
"Yes thanks," he said, to spare her the embarrassment of explaining that sudden frightened cry of hers. "I could feel that. But I have to thank Dick for an enjoyable bath, all the same. I suppose he will never forgive me; the person whose life you save never does."
He sat down on the breakwater and began to empty his pockets. There were several papers—bills—reduced to semi-pulp; Yorke did not sorrow over them. His watch had stopped; his cigars and cigar case were irretrievably ruined. He held them up with a laugh, and laid them on top of the breakwater in the sun; then suddenly his happy-go-lucky expression grew rather grave as he took up an envelope and looked at it.