“How dare you set up your memory against a drowning woman’s?”
He was glad to find her like herself, and not alarmed. Her strokes were getting stronger now, but he still feared for the consequences if she should suddenly lose her nerve. “What did you think of when you sank?” he asked, lightly, to make her think the danger of sinking was over.
“Of Her—” she began, and stopped short. “Of her carryings-on at my funeral, poor Nor. I was regretting I hadn’t made my will and left her my nose.”
This sounded pure nonsense to her companion.
“I think I can go by myself now,” she added, after a long silence. “Thank you so much for the use of your arm.”
“You are quite sure?” he said, anxiously.
“Yes. Of course, you have won.”
He removed his arm, but kept watchfully at her side. And his misgivings were justified, for, after a slow twenty yards, her strokes became so spent and irregular that he came to her assistance again, and she accepted his support with a wan smile.
“It’s this soppy, clogging costume,” she said.
“You had better keep your breath in your lungs,” he said, not in rebuke, but in hortation.