Archibald Lyndsay went down to the beach again, where Carington, not very happy, sat waiting on the stern of his canoe. He rose as his host came near.
“This way,” said Lyndsay. “And now”—as they walked to and fro on the upper shingles—“may I ask you to let me understand it all?”
Carington quietly related the scene on the shore, omitting nothing. When he had ended, Lyndsay said:
“I have probably to thank you for a life which is very dear to me. I have no words in which to say what I feel. We are very deep in your debt.”
“Oh, any one would—”
“No—I understand. You are a little like myself, I fancy. To have too much obliged another has its embarrassments. I won’t ask you now to let my wife say her own thankfulness; but come and breakfast to-morrow, and bring Mr. Ellett.”
“With pleasure.”
“By the way—and you will pardon me—what was all that about Fairfield and a bowman?”
“Simply, Mr. Lyndsay, that I am still, in my holiday \.pn +1 times, a bit of a foolish boy, and when Polycarp came up for a man and could get none, I supposed it was for you, and just as a frolic induced him to let me play bowman. I had, of course, not the remotest idea that it was for Miss Lyndsay. May I ask you to accept for her my most humble apologies?”
“I see,” said Lyndsay, laughing. “It has its amusing side.”