"Got you!" he cried joyfully, but he spoke too soon. The rope, undone, gave easy way to his strong pull, and the boat, with Marrion laughing in the bows, drifted slowly out from the shore.
He stood looking at her, the useless rope in his hand. By the light of the moon, now riding serene overhead (for the brief summer storm had passed the zenith and now lay to the south, a dense bank of black quivering every now and again with throbs of summer lightning), he could see her tall and white, for her cloak had long since been flung aside, and heart-whole admiration possessed him.
"Marmie," he cried, "hold up--or, by God, I'll swim after you. I want to speak to you."
She took an oar, stopped her way by holding on to one of the submerged seaweed-covered rocks of the boat-pier and waited.
"Why did you run away? Why wouldn't you stop?"
She gave him the truth squarely and fairly.
"Because I should have passed as your wife, and if I had chosen I might----" She hesitated, and he relieved her by a low whistle.
"By Jove!" he said slowly, almost absently. "I didn't think of that, but"--he hesitated, in his turn--"but I thought, Marmie, you said you--you loved me!"
His voice lingered and lowered in altogether distracting fashion.
She turned hastily to the other oar, and let the blade drop into the water with a splash.