He threw all his weight upon the oar which he was using as a pole, and out the boat shot into the deep water.
“Great heavens!” said Edmund Airey. “Where have you been for the past couple of hours?”
“Where?” repeated Miss Craven in a tone of voice that should only be assumed when the eyes, of the speaker are sparkling. But Miss Craven’s eyes were not sparkling. Their strong point was not in that direction. “I’m afraid you must give an account of yourself, Mr. Wynne,” she continued. She was standing by the side of Edmund Airey, within the embrace of the mighty antlers of the ancient elk in the hall. The sound of dance music was in the air, and Miss Craven’s face was flushed.
“To give an account of myself would be to place myself on a level of dulness with the autobiographers whose reminiscences we yawn over.”
“Then give us a chance of yawning,” cried Miss Craven.
“You do not need one,” said he. “Have you not been for some time by the side of a Member of Parliament?”
“He has been over the cliffs,” suggested the Member of Parliament. He was looking at Harold’s shoes, which bore tokens of having been ill-treated beyond the usual ill-treatment of shoes with bows of ribbon above the toes.
“Yes,” said Harold. “Over the cliffs.”
“At the Banshee’s Cave, I’m certain,” said Miss Craven.
“Yes, at the Banshee’s Cave.”