powerful breast-stroke. I then sat for a while at the water’s edge to rest and to drink in the thrilling glory of what my heart persisted in telling me was the morning of my life.
And then I saw Him.
Not distinctly, for he was rowing a dinghy in my direction, and consequently had his back to me.
In the stress of my emotions and an aggravation of modesty, I dived again. With an intensity like that of a captured conger I yearned to be hidden by the water. I could watch him as I swam, for, strictly speaking, he was in my way, though a little farther out to sea than I intended to go. As I drew near, I noticed that he wore an odd garment like a dressing-gown. He had stopped rowing.
I turned upon my back for a moment’s rest, and, as I did so, heard a cry. I resumed my former attitude, and brushed the salt water from my eyes.
The dinghy was wobbling unsteadily. The dressing-gown was in the bows; and he, my sea-god, was in the water. Only for a second I saw him. Then he sank.
How I blessed the muscular development of my arms.
I reached him as he came to the surface.
“That’s twice,” he remarked contemplatively, as I seized him by the shoulders.
“Be brave,” I said excitedly; “I can save you.”
“I should be most awfully obliged,” he said.
“Do exactly as I tell you.”
“I say,” he remonstrated, “you’re not going to drag me along by the roots of my hair, are you?”
The natural timidity of man is, I find, attractive.
I helped him to the boat, and he climbed in. I trod water, clinging with one hand to the stern.
“Allow me,” he said, bending down.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“Not, really?”
“Thank you very much, but I think I will stay where I am.”
“But you may get cramp. By the way—I’m really frightfully obliged to you for saving my life—I mean, a perfect stranger—I’m afraid it’s quite spoiled your dip.”
“Not at all,” I said politely. “Did you get cramp?”
“A twinge. It was awfully kind of you.”
“Not at all.”
Then there was a rather awkward silence.
“Is this your first visit to Guernsey?” I asked.
“Yes; I arrived yesterday. It’s a delightful place. Do you live here?”
“Yes; that white cottage you can just see through the trees.”
“I suppose I couldn’t give you a tow anywhere?”
“No; thank you very much. I will swim back.”
Another constrained silence.
“Are you ever in London, Miss–-?”
“Goodwin. Oh, yes; we generally go over in the winter, Mr.–-“
“Cloyster. Really? How jolly. Do you go to the theatre much?”
“Oh, yes. We saw nearly everything last time we were over.”
There was a third silence. I saw a remark about the weather trembling on his lip, and, as I was beginning to feel the chill of the water a little, I determined to put a temporary end to the conversation.
“I think I will be swimming back now,” I said.
“You’re quite sure I can’t give you a tow?”
“Quite, thanks. Perhaps you would care to come to breakfast with us, Mr. Cloyster? I know my mother would be glad to see you.”
“It is very kind of you. I should be delighted. Shall we meet on the beach?”
I swam off to my cave to dress.
Breakfast was a success, for my mother was a philosopher. She said very little, but what she did say was magnificent. In her youth she had moved in literary circles, and now found her daily pleasure in the works of Schopenhauer, Kant, and other Germans. Her lightest reading was
