"Well—" She perceived that, if not right, he was stubborn; and with a final small gesture of deprecation, weakly surrendered. "I'm sorry to be such a nuisance," she murmured, rising and gathering skirts about her.
Maitland stoutly denied the hideous insinuation: "I am only too glad—"
She balanced herself lightly upon the step. He moved nearer and assured himself of a firm foothold on the pebbly river-bed. She sank gracefully into his arms, proving a considerable burden—weightier, in fact, than he had anticipated. He was somewhat staggered; it seemed that he embraced countless yards of ruffles and things ballasted with (at a shrewd guess) lead. He swayed.
Then, recovering his equilibrium, incautiously glanced into her eyes.
And lost it again, completely.
"I was mistaken," he told himself; "daylight will but enhance…."
She held herself considerately still, perhaps wondering why he made no move. Perhaps otherwise; there is reason to believe that she may have suspected—being a woman.
At length, "Is there anything I can do," she inquired meekly, "to make it easier for you?"
"I'm afraid," he replied, attitude apologetic, "that I must ask you to put your arm around my ne—my shoulders. It would be more natural."
"Oh."
The monosyllable was heavy with meaning—with any one of a dozen meanings, in truth. Maitland debated the most obvious. Did she conceive he had insinuated that it was his habit to ferry armfuls of attractive femininity over rocky fords by the light of a midnight moon?