“Will you come for a bit of a sail, Eva?”
“O no, thank you. I must be getting home; it is seven o’clock.”
“There is no hurry for you to get home. Your aunt and Florence have gone to tea with the Smythes.”
“Indeed, I cannot come; I could not think of such a thing.”
Her words were unequivocal, but the ancient mariner put a strange interpretation upon them. First he hauled up the little sail, and then, placing his brown hands against the stern of the boat, he rested his weight upon them, and caused her to travel far enough into the waves to float her bow.
“Now, miss.”
“I am not coming, indeed.”
“Now, miss.”
“I will not come, Ernest.”
“Come,” said Ernest, quietly holding out his hand to help her in.