“But I can swim, too.”
“Not in a long dress.... Ah, here we are. I thought so.”
In a couple of strides the water was below his knees. Soon he was standing on a pebbly beach at the nose of the promontory formed by the bend where the accident had happened. In order to lower Cynthia to the ground without bringing her muslin flounces in contact with his dripping clothes he had to stoop somewhat. Her hair brushed his forehead, his eyes, his lips, as he lifted her down. His hands rested for an instant on the warm softness of her neck and shoulders. His heart leaped in a mad riot of joy at the belief that she would have uttered no protest if he had drawn her nearer instead of setting her decorously on her feet. He dared not look at her, but turned and gazed at the river.
“Thank God, that is over!” he said.
Cynthia heard something in his voice then that was absent when they were both in peril of being swept away by the silent rush of the black stream.
“Quite an adventure,” she sighed, stooping to feel the hem of her frock.
“You are not wet?” he asked, after a pause.
“Not a thread. The water barely touched my feet. How prompt you were! I suppose men who fight have often to decide quickly like that.... What caused it? A whole seam was torn open.”
“It cannot be a stake. Such a thing would not be permitted to exist in this river.... A snag probably. Some old tree stump undermined by last month’s heavy rain.”