“Auf Wiedersehen,” he said, simply.
She shook her head, did not even offer her hand, and pulled away; Davies turned sharp round and went below.
There was now no muddy Rubicon to obstruct us, for the tide had risen a good deal, and the sands were covering. I offered again to take the sculls, but she took no notice and rowed on, so that I was a silent passenger on the stern seat till we reached her boat, a spruce little yacht’s gig, built to the native model, with a spoon-bow and tiny lee-boards. It was already afloat, but riding quite safely to a rope and a little grapnel, which she proceeded to haul in.
“It was quite safe after all, you see,” I said.
“Yes, but I could not stay. Herr Carruthers, I want to say something to you.” (I knew it was coming; von Brüning’s warning over again.) “I made a mistake just now; it is no use your calling on us to-morrow.”
“Why not?”
“You will not see my father.”
“I thought you said he was coming back?”
“Yes, by the morning steamer; but he will be very busy.”
“We can wait. We have several days to spare, and we have to call for letters anyhow.”