He was off before Jeff could reply. Jeff started toward the boat to put it up, but stopped, considering.
Lucy would think it that of her admirer, and would be all the more sure to keep her appointment. He left it as it was, swinging lightly on the water, six feet out. It was a habit of Just's to moor a boat at the length of her painter, to prevent her bumping against the rough old landing.
Lucy, coming swiftly down the path fifteen minutes later, saw the boat and hastened her steps. She did not observe that this was a slimmer, longer craft than the boat George Jarvis was using. She reached the landing and looked about. Of course he was in the summer-house. She went to it, her skirts, which she had of late been surreptitiously lengthening, held daintily in her hand.
As she came close, a figure appeared in the doorway. Before she could be frightened by the realisation that it was not Jarvis's slender young frame which confronted her, Jeff accosted her in the mildest tones imaginable:
"It's only Jefferson Birch. Don't be scared. Fine night, isn't it?"
"Y-yes," stammered Lucy, in dismay. She stood still, her skirts gathered close, as if she were about to run.
"Don't go. Out for a stroll? So am I," said Jeff, pleasantly, as if midnight promenades were the accustomed thing at "The Banks." "Won't you sit down?"
There were seats outside the summer-house as well as within, and he motioned toward one of them.
"No, thank you. I think I'll go back," said Lucy, and her voice trembled.
"Why, you've only just come! Why not stay a while and have a visit with me? You must have been intending to stay."