At precisely the proper distance from the dock, the motor ceased its purring; the boat swept on, white water crisping beneath its stem, ripples widening fanlike from its flanks and sketching sweeping plumes of purple on the calm ultra-marine surface—its speed at first not perceptibly moderated. Gradually, then, it yielded to the passive resistance of the waters, moving slower and more slow until at length it nosed the landing-stage with a touch well-nigh as gentle as a caress.
Poised lightly over the bows, the woman waited, her figure all in white sharp-cut against the blue of sky and water, with an effect as vital as it was graceful. Then at the right instant leaping to the dock with the headwarp, she made the little vessel fast with two deft half-hitches round the out-most pile, and turning came swinging to dry land and up the gentle slope to the veranda, ease and strength and joy of living inherent in every flowing movement, matching well the bright comeliness of her countenance and the shining splendour of her friendly eyes.
No imaginable consideration, however selfish, could have kept Whitaker any longer in his chair.
"The most amiable person I know!" he cried, elated. "Greetings!"
She paused by the steps, looking up, a fascinating vision.
"No—please! I've only stopped for an instant. Do sit down."
"Shan't—until you do."
"But I really can't stop."
She ascended the steps and dropped coolly into a chair, laughing at her own lack of consistency. Whitaker resumed his seat.
"You're really able to stand without assistance?"