“Let us row near the shore. If any one belonging to us is there, they will see and make signs. But there will be no one.”
There was not. Wareham would gladly have hailed Mrs Martyn, yet was conscious of a throb of delight when the pretty little village lay behind them. They were by this time in more open water, and the depression which had fastened on him fled away.
“What are your commands about your picnic?” he asked, smiling.
“Find out from the men if there is any place where we can land and boil some water.” This took some time and a little guessing. Finally—
“I believe they say there is an island,” said Wareham.
“I am sure there is.”
“We should reach it in an hour.”
He spent the hour in blissful dreams which, having been once routed, now trooped merrily back. Anne was generally silent, but when she spoke it was with the same friendly ease she had shown throughout the day, and she made no complaints of fatigue. Indeed, he classed her as a heroine when he reflected that she had uttered nothing in the shape of a grumble. Would not most women have indulged in something of the sort? Wareham liked to believe that they would, and exalted her accordingly for her forbearance. It was evening by the hours, and they were well in the Sogne fjord, when Anne pointed out the island towards which the boat was directed.
“Do you see?”
“I see a rock.”