"H'm!" She eyed him in her odd, sharp way. But he looked back with a half understanding defiance. "So you won't take all the blame?"
Leslie smote the lower step with his foot, then shyly glanced at Hilda. Hilda laughed and coloured.
So Miss Whitcom said, looking drolly off to sea: "The plot thickens!"
And she was right; there were greater doings ahead.
Leslie sprang off along the ridge to get into tennis garb. He decided, as was only natural, that the one infallible way of cleansing himself was to plunge into the sea. He was consequently in his little cottage bedroom about two minutes, and then emerged in swimming apparel.
Leslie was well-formed and sun-browned. He sped off over the sand to the shore, and thence dived straight out of sight.
"Swims rather well," commented Miss Whitcom. "That crawl stroke isn't by any means the easiest to master."
"Yes, Leslie's the best swimmer on the Point," said Hilda proudly.
Miss Whitcom dipped her pen, but the ink went dry on it, and the letter lay uncompleted.