He was stooping unlacing his shoes, pushing them off with the foot. Then he threw his soft hat into the bottom of the boat.
“You can’t go into the water with your hurt hand,” said Gudrun, panting, in a low voice of horror.
“What? It won’t hurt.”
He had struggled out of his jacket, and had dropped it between his feet. He sat bare-headed, all in white now. He felt the belt at his waist. They were nearing the launch, which stood still big above them, her myriad lamps making lovely darts, and sinuous running tongues of ugly red and green and yellow light on the lustrous dark water, under the shadow.
“Oh get her out! Oh Di, darling! Oh get her out! Oh Daddy, Oh Daddy!” moaned the child’s voice, in distraction. Somebody was in the water, with a life belt. Two boats paddled near, their lanterns swinging ineffectually, the boats nosing round.
“Hi there—Rockley!—hi there!”
“Mr Gerald!” came the captain’s terrified voice. “Miss Diana’s in the water.”
“Anybody gone in for her?” came Gerald’s sharp voice.
“Young Doctor Brindell, sir.”
“Where?”