“Why not? What else can be done?” Wareham could think of nothing. The misadventure meant more to him than it did to her, at least it seemed so beforehand. He had gone rashly near breaking his resolution in capturing that solitary hour with her, and was forced to reflect that he had not come out of the ordeal scathless. Fate was punishing him by prolonging what he had already found too long for his strength, and there was nothing for it but to accept fate. He said hurriedly—“I will see about a boat at once,” and was going, when she called him back.
“We must have dinner before we set off.”
“You put me to shame,” he said. “I believe my wits have deserted me.”
“Worse things have fallen to my lot,” she laughed; “do you expect me to offer you, words of consolation? Bear your burdens with greater philosophy, Mr Wareham.”
“If that were all!” rushed from his lips.
“I can’t even lighten them by ordering dinner,” Anne went on, taking no notice. “Bennett’s Conversation-book is on the steamer, with everything else, and I can remember nothing but mange tak, which doesn’t seem called for at this moment.”
“At any rate, I can order dinner,” said Wareham humbly.
“And you couldn’t do anything better. Please have a great many trout. Who knows when we shall dine again!”
“I must find out how long a boat will take in reaching Balholm.”
“Don’t ask,” Anne said quickly. “Don’t you see that as the thing has to be done there is no possible use in looking at the difficulties? I, on the contrary, mean to treat it as something special. All the world and his wife—even those horrid tourists—go down the Nserofjord in steamers; how much more enchanting to be rowed dreamily, with neither smoke nor noise! Pray don’t be so dismal about it. Do you know that you are paying me the worst of compliments? Endure your fate bravely, and order the trout.”