Marche sat staring out across the water.
"I—am so very sorry," repeated the girl, in a low voice. "Are you offended with me?"
He turned and looked at her, and spoke steadily enough: "Of course I'm not. I was glad you had a nap. There has been nothing doing—except those stupid widgeon—not a feather stirring."
"Then you are not angry with me?"
"Why, you absurd girl!" he said, laughing and stretching out one hand to her.
Into her face flashed an exquisite smile; daintily she reached out and
dropped her hand into his. They exchanged a friendly shake, still smiling.
"All the same," she said, "it was horrid of me. And I think I boasted to you about my knowledge of a bayman's duties."
"You are all right," he said, "a clean shot, a thoroughbred. I ask no better comrade than you. I never again shall have such a comrade."
"But—I am your bayman, not your comrade," she exclaimed, forcing a little laugh. "You'll have better guides than I, Mr. Marche."