“My dear friend,” he interrupted, “in the hour of action only a fool ever says. Come on.”
And while she still hesitated they were off again.
“But——” she tried to expostulate.
“My dearest friend,” he whispered, “and my dear old vicarage!”
He gave her no time to protest. Her skates were off, she was on her way to her carriage, and he was striking out again for the middle of the lake before she had time to collect her wits.
He took out his watch and looked at the time. It was nearly a quarter-past four. Then he came up to Escott, who by this time was the only other soul on the ice.
“About time we were going in,” said Escott.
“Give me half-an-hour more. I’ll show you how to do that vine you admired.”
“All right,” assented the doctor.
A minute or two later Mr Beveridge, as if struck by a sudden reflection, exclaimed, “By Jove, there’s that poor devil Moggridge freezing to death on shore. Can’t you manage to look after so dangerous a lunatic yourself? It is his tea-time, too.”