But alack! the slip of newspaper was already out of reach, speeded by a tiny eddy toward a miniature rapid in the middle of the beck. Lydia, clinging with one hand to a stump of willow, caught up a stick lying on the bank with the other, and, hanging over the stream, tried to head back the truant. All that happened was that her foot slipping on a pebble went flop into the shallow water, and part of her dress followed it.
It was not open to Lydia to swear, and she had no time for the usual feminine exclamations before she heard a voice behind her.
"Allow me—can I be of any use?"
She turned in astonishment, extricating her wet foot, and clambered back on to the bank. A young man stood there, civilly deferential. His bicycle lay on the grass at the edge of the road, which was only a few steps away.
"I saw you slip in, and thought perhaps I might help. You were trying to reach something, weren't you?"
"It doesn't matter, thank you," said Lydia, whose cheeks had gone pink.
The young man looked at her, and became still more civil.
"What was it? That piece of paper? Oh, I'll get it in a moment."
And splashing from stone to stone in the river-bed, he had soon reached a point where, with the aid of Lydia's stick, the bedraggled cutting was soon fished out and returned to its owner. Lydia thanked him.
"But you've wet both your feet!" She looked at them, with concern. "Won't it be very uncomfortable, bicycling?"