"I understand," she said with a smile, "you went in to save him."
"Well, that's putting rather a fine point to it," he said, smilingly.
"But it's true. May one ask his name?"
Leycester flicked a piece of moss from the stone coping and hesitated for a moment:
"His name is Frank," he said; "Frank Etheridge."
Lady Lenore nodded.
"A pretty name; I don't remember it. I hope he is grateful."
"I hope so," said Leycester. "I am sure he is more grateful than the occasion merits."
The old countess looked round at him.
"What is it you say?" she said. "You have been in the river after some boy, and you stand there lounging about in your wet clothes? Well, the lad ought to be grateful, for though you will not catch your death, you will in all probability catch a chronic influenza cold, and that's worse than death; it's life with a pocket-handkerchief to your nose. Go and change your things at once."