"Who got me out of the water?" asks he, lazily, pretending (hypocrite that he is) to be still overpowered with weakness. "And when did you come?"
"Just now," returns she, with some hesitation, and a rich accession of coloring, that renders her even prettier than she was a moment since. Because
"From every blush that kindles in her cheeks,
Ten thousand little loves and graces spring."
Her confusion, however, and the fact that no one else is near, betrays the secret she fain would hide.
"Was it you?" asks he, raising himself on his elbow to regard her earnestly, though very loath to quit the spot where late he has been tenant. "You? Oh, Mona!"
It is the first time he has ever called her by her Christian name without a prefix. The tears rise to her eyes. Feeling herself discovered, she makes her confession slowly, without looking at him, and with an air of indifference so badly assumed as to kill the idea of her ever attaining prominence upon the stage.
"Yes, it was I," she says. "And why shouldn't I? Is it to see you drown I would? I—I didn't want you to find out; but"—quickly—"I would do the same for any one at any time. You know that."
"I am sure you would," says Geoffrey, who has risen to his feet and has taken her hand. "Nevertheless, though, as you say, I am but one in the crowd,—and, of course, nothing to you,—I am very glad you did it for me."
With a little touch of wilfulness, perhaps pride, she withdraws her hand.
"I dare say," she says, carelessly, purposely mistaking his meaning: "it must have been cold lying there."