“My God, no—it was you!” he stammered. “But—but is there any mistake?”
The soft sound of the dining-room door closing left them alone face to face. He came toward her. She stepped back.
“There’s no mistake. At least, we were in the water, and she was afraid.”
“But Hemming said she was washed out of the saddle—and the tow took her out, and you went after her and got her!” He still came toward her. It was hard to look him in the face, for the bewildered eyes reminded her of Lillian Gueste’s look when the tide took her out from the rocks. Blanche felt her bravado running out at her finger ends.
“But I didn’t—— I—I—oh, Walter, you don’t know what I did!” She faltered and sobbed. She leaned against the hatrack and buried her face in the folds of a coat.
“Why, child, you simply saved her!” His arms were around her, and he tried to pull the cloak from her face. “She wants to see you to-morrow. She wants to tell you——”
“Oh, no; I can’t. She wouldn’t if she knew——” Blanche’s voice was muffled on his shoulder.
“Well, what?” he muttered, his lips against her cheek.
The answer reached him, a half smothered, almost contented whisper:
“How I hated her!”