"Well, I shouldn't mind that," he remarks. "I wonder why one lives in London? One is always grunting at and slanging it, and yet one hangs on there." He sighs inaudibly as he thinks of what it must be to-night, with its feverish crowd, its glaring lights, its yelling cabmen and struggling horses; thinks of the folly, and, alas! the wickedness, and glances at the lovely, peaceful face above him with a great yearning—and regret.
"I like London," says Leslie. "But then I go there so seldom, that it is a holiday place to me."
"I know," he responds. "Yes, I can understand that. And I like Portmaris because it is a holiday place to me, I suppose."
Leslie smiles.
"I hope you will not catch cold and be all the worse for this holiday," she says.
He laughs.
"There is no fear of that. I never felt better in my life."
"You must sit firm now," she warns him. "I am going to drive the boat on to the sand."
"Here already!" he remarks, as the keel of the boat touches bottom, and the sails run down with a musical thud; and he steps over the side, and so suddenly that the boat lurches over after him.
He puts out his strong arm to stay her from falling, while old William curses the "land lubber" in accents low but deep.