“Mr. Crabb!” Patricia retired in confusion to the tiller. “You’re impudent!” She hauled in her sheet and the boat gathered headway.
“Please, Miss Wharton, please!” he shouted. But Patricia did not move from the tiller, and the catboat glided off. He watched her sail down and recover the paddle and then head back toward him.
“Won’t you forgive me and take me in?”
“I suppose I must. But I’m sure I’d rather you’d drown. I’m hardly in the mood for coals of fire.”
“I am, though,” he chattered, “for I’m d—deucedly c—cold.”
“You don’t deserve it. But if you were drowned I suppose I’d be to blame. I wouldn’t have you on my conscience again for anything.”
“Then please take me on your boat.”
“Will you behave yourself?”
“I’ll try.”