At the sound of the word drawing she gave a little scream—she had quite forgotten it!
“I know—I know—the drawing! What became of the drawing?”
“Well, you know, I had to have my hands free—” he began, almost apologetically.
“Of course! For me! And now I remember seeing you fling it away on to the bank. Was it”—she spoke with bated breath, as one might speak of the fall of empires—“was it quite spoiled?”
“Pretty bad,” he answered, moodily.
“You can’t think how I wish you had not saved me at its expense! Why did you? Why did you?” she asked, with absolute sincerity.
Rivers seemed to repent of his lapse into temper, slight as it had been. He said, laughingly, “Well, I must tell you that I thought it over! It was a fearful wrench, of course, but I decided in your favour. Do you blame me?”
She resented his not taking her seriously, and replied, gravely, “Yes, I do. I was not worth the drawing to you, I am sure. You should have considered it first of all. Who was it—was it Cæsar—who swam across the Channel with his Commentaries in his mouth?”
“He did—something of the kind—but I never heard that he had a woman to look after as well.”
“And then—you carried me home?” she went on, in a tone of sentimental reminiscence.