In the silence that followed the rousing cheer of joy at their return, Floy turned to her dripping cavalier, saying demurely:
“I thank you from my heart, Mr. Beresford, for your noble attempt to save my life. I was not in any danger, it is true, for I can swim like a duck, but of course you did not know that, and you are just as truly a real hero as if your brave attempts had indeed saved me from a watery grave.”
There was a swelling murmur of surprise from all around her, and one little girl, bolder than the rest, came up and said:
“Why, Floy, didn’t you intend to drown yourself after all?”
Floy tossed back her wet curly mass of short ringlets, and returned merrily:
“Of course not, little goosie; why should I be so silly as to kill myself, I that am so young and happy? I only jumped in to frighten you all—yes, and to test the courage of a gentleman who told us only this morning how much he adored physical courage.”
Her accusing blue eyes turned on Otho Maury, and she said, with light, laughing scorn:
“I thought as you pretended to be so very, very fond of me, that you would risk your life to save mine, but you proved yourself a coward after all!”
He was livid with secret, sullen rage, but putting a bold face on the matter, he answered, carelessly:
“Oh, I knew it was only a trick, and that you could swim as well as anybody; so I didn’t choose to humor your fancy to have me jump in the water and ruin my new fifty-dollar suit, like my friend Beresford here, who, it’s plain to be seen, is as mad as a March hare at the way he was fooled. Come, mon ami, shall I drive you into town for some dry clothes?”