It was not until he had almost overtaken her that it occurred to him that it might be necessary to formulate an excuse for his following. The action had been so direct as to admit of no misunderstanding. Consequently, as she turned, and found him near her, Merrington spoke.
“Miss Selwyn, if you will pardon me, it is not without danger that you come so far out from shore. My name is Merrington—Geoffrey Merrington.”
She flushed slightly under the clear tan of her skin; then she bowed her crimson ’kerchiefed head gravely.
“Thank you for your trouble, but I have never been drowned yet.”
“Nor have I,” he affirmed, laughing, keeping stroke with her. “Nor do I want to be to-day.”
For answer, she turned her back upon him, and deliberately swam seaward. Merrington followed.
“Miss Selwyn,” he said, presently, when her audacity sent queer sensations about his heart, “may I remind you that this coast has many counter-currents? Believe me, you should not venture out further—not half so far.”
If she heard, she made no sign of doing so. Merrington, with an added determination, cast a glance to shore, where he could see small forms standing together in a way that, even at that distance, spelled anxiety. He caught a glimpse of the guard, erect upon his observation stand. Then he threw out his splendid limbs in strokes that sent him beyond the girl, and, turning, faced her.
“Miss Selwyn, the entire beach is watching us. They will send a boat for us in a moment, and compel our return.”
At that she looked him squarely in the eyes, the fire in her own blazing into full wrath.