“What’s the matter with you this morning?” he demanded one day when Ann had successfully infused a little formality into her manner.
“Nothing. Why should there be?” she returned.
“No reason at all. Only you seemed to be emulating the stiffness of a ramrod, and I thought you must be getting frightened of me—rigid with fear, you know”—impudently.
What could any one do but laugh? It was useless to try and treat him with aloof dignity if he promptly interpreted it as a sign of fear.
“I don’t see anything in you to inspire terror,” Ann submitted.
“You don’t? Good. Then come along down to the Cove, and I’ll teach you a new stroke.”
And then, as though to contradict every opinion she or any one else might have formed of him, he was as painstaking and encouraging over the swimming lesson which ensued as though his whole reputation depended on her proficiency.
A day or two later, when Ann, accompanied by Tony and Robin, descended to Berrier Cove for her morning dip, it was to find the beach, at that time usually dotted about with bathers in vari-coloured bathing suits and peignoirs, deserted by all save the hardiest and most determined.
The weather had changed with all the abruptness with which the English climate seems able to accomplish such transitions. A strong gale of wind was blowing, and the placid blue sea which, even at high tide, had been lapping the shore very tranquilly throughout the last fortnight, was converted into a rolling, grey-green stretch of water, breaking at its rim into towering waves.
“It looks a bit too rough for you, Ann,” observed Robin, surveying the scene doubtfully, “I don’t think even your new-found prowess at swimming will be of much use to you to-day.”