"It doesn't in the least. But I suppose it's as much as I'll get out of you to-day."
"You won't get even that unless you take me out of this beastly cave where I'm smothering for want of air and terrified out of my senses."
They stumbled back together to the bend in the cave from which it was possible to see the sunlight. Beth drew a deep breath of relief and hurried forward, as fast as it was possible to hurry over a track of round, rolling stones.
"Don't rush so, Beth," said Jimmy. "I'm out of breath, and there's something I want to say to you."
"If it's anything more about my marrying your uncle," said Beth, "I won't listen to it."
"It's not. It's something more about your marrying me."
They had reached the mouth of the cave. The rehearsal, well started at last, was going on in a serious and orderly way. Old Bunce's boat had reached the pool and was made fast to the rocks. Her cargo was being landed. Mrs. Eames shouted orders from the top of the rock off which she had dived on the day when Sir Evelyn first met her. The superfluous people and all the children were herded together under the charge of Mary Lambert, who prevented their interfering with the performance. Sir Evelyn, perched somewhat perilously beside Mrs. Eames, was looking on with satisfaction. Everybody was too busy and too deeply interested to take any notice of Beth and Jimmy when they came from the depths of the cave.
"Beth," said Jimmy, "I'm quite serious this time."
"So am I," said Beth. "I like you, Jimmy. I've always liked you; but I'm not going to marry a man who—— But I've told you all that a dozen times."
"You have," said Jimmy, "and I quite see your point. I'm a rotter, a footering butterfly, perching on the flowers of life instead of gathering honey like a good, laborious bee. I don't go in for work and all that sort of piffle. That's it, isn't it, Beth? That's what you say."