“Good for the old boy!”
“No, it wasn't good for him. Father says it soured him. His name was Swithin.”
“What a corking name!”
“Do you know that we're getting farther off, not nearer? This river flows.”
“Splendid!” cried Mont, dipping his sculls vaguely; “it's good to meet a girl who's got wit.”
“But better to meet a young man who's got it in the plural.”
Young Mont raised a hand to tear his hair.
“Look out!” cried Fleur. “Your scull!”
“All right! It's thick enough to bear a scratch.”
“Do you mind sculling?” said Fleur severely. “I want to get in.”