“Not with your clothes on.”
Florence did not answer. She threw a glance toward the millionaire’s cottage. All was dark there.
“Here!” Lucile felt a garment thrust into her hands, then another and another.
“Florence, you mustn’t.”
“It’s the only way.”
A moment later Florence’s white body gleamed in the moonlight as she raced away down the beach to gain the point nearest the boat.
To the listening ears of Lucile and the child there came the sound of a splash, then the slow plash, plash, plash of a swimmer’s strokes. Florence was away and swimming strong. But the wind from off a point had caught the boat and was carrying it out from shore, driving it on faster than she knew.
Confident of her ability to reach the goal in a mere breath of time, she struck out at once with the splendid swing of the Australian crawl. Trained to the pink of perfection, her every muscle in condition, she laughed at the wavelets that lifted her up only to drop her down again and now and again to dash a saucy handful of spray in her face. She laughed and even hummed a snatch of an old sea song. She was as much at home in the water as in her room at the university.
But now, as she got farther from the shore, the waves grew in size and force. They impeded her progress. The shore was protected by a rocky point farther up the beach. She was rapidly leaving that protection.
Throwing herself high out of the water, she looked for the boat. A little cry of consternation escaped her lips. She had expected to find it close at hand. It seemed as far away as when she had first seen it.