“Hard work,” he said, all his sympathies with the propeller.
“Brrr!” remarked Hildegarde.
“Nearly as much mud as water,” he went on, with equal irrelevance.
“It certainly is a great deal colder,” she persisted, as though he had denied that fact.
“Less than two fathoms at low tide—”
“Brrr! Brrr!”
Ah, that had brought him back. From the overcoat he was wearing he hurriedly unbuttoned the tweed cape, and when he got it off put it round Hildegarde’s shoulders.
“Are you sure you won’t miss it?” she asked.
“It won’t keep you warm if it isn’t buttoned.” With a droll preoccupied air and a pursed lip, less like a lover paying graceful attentions to his lady than like a clumsy nurse with a small child to look after, Cheviot laboriously buttoned up the cape. Only, a nurse, however little skilled, would not have begun at the bottom, nor, having at last buttoned her way to the top, would she have so nearly buttoned in her charge’s chin. Hildegarde laughed, and considering she’d been so short a time in the cape, grew miraculously warm. To avoid looking at Cheviot she looked down to see how the propeller might be getting on.