There was no sound of waking life about the tents. On the beach in front, all sorts and sizes of skiffs were drawn up. They chose the first one that had oars lying in it. The falling tide had left it high and dry, and it required a strenuous effort on Don's part to launch it. At the scraping of the bottom on the sand, a voice issued out of the nearest tent:
"Who's that?"
A lean and disheveled shadow appeared in the tent opening.
"It's Jones," said Don lightly. "Just want to take a lady for a little row."
"Oh all right, Jones. Go as far as you like."
"I'm popular with the gang," murmured Don dryly.
He only had three hundred yards to row to the yacht. It was one thing to decide resolutely to give himself up, and another thing to put it into practice. He took half a dozen strokes energetically, and then loafed at the oars, gazing hungrily at Pen.
Pen suddenly conscious of the absurd figure she must be making, put up her hands and unpinning her hair, shook it about her shoulders. Don drew in his oars, and creeping aft caught up the dark tide and pressed it to his lips.
"Oh, why do you do that now?" he groaned. "You are so beautiful that way?"
Pen caught his head against her breast. "How can I? How can I? How can I?" she murmured.