She had run up the sandy beach, before he had pushed off the boat, and she never looked round.
He stood with one foot on the gunwale of the boat in act to push into deep water, thinking that perhaps she might at the last moment look round.
She did not.
He caught another glimpse of her beyond the furze that crowned a ridge of rocks. But she had her face steadfastly set toward the white cottage.
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?”