But it was a race against time. The first day slipped by, a blank, and the second, till now it was but a matter of hours. The last afternoon had come.
Not even Mr. Samuel Galer, of Dodson’s Private Inquiry Agency, could have kept a more unflagging watch than did Jimmy during those hours. There was no rehearsal that afternoon, and the members of the company, in various stages of nervous collapse, strayed distractedly about the grounds. First one, then another, would seize upon Molly, while Jimmy, watching from afar, cursed their pertinacity.
At last she wandered off alone, and Jimmy quitting his ambush, followed.
She walked in the direction of the lake. It had been a terribly hot, oppressive afternoon. There was thunder in the air. Through the trees the lake glistened invitingly.
She was standing at the water’s edge when Jimmy came up. Her back was turned. She was rocking with her foot a Canadian canoe that lay alongside the bank. She started as he spoke. His feet on the soft turf had made no sound.
“Can I take you out on the lake?” he said.
She did not answer for a moment. She was plainly confused.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I—I’m waiting for Lord Dreever.”
Jimmy saw that she was nervous. There was tension in the air. She was looking away from him, out across the lake, and her face was flushed.
“Won’t you?” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
Jimmy looked over his shoulder. Down the lower terrace was approaching the long form of his lordship. He walked with pensive jerkiness, not as one hurrying to a welcome tryst. As Jimmy looked up he vanished behind the great clump of laurels which stood on the lowest terrace. In another minute he would appear round them.
Gently, but with extreme despatch, Jimmy placed a hand on either side of Molly’s waist. The next moment he had swung her off her feet and lowered her carefully onto the cushions in the bow of the canoe.
Then, jumping in himself with a force that made the boat rock, he loosed the mooring rope, seized the paddle and pushed off.
XIX
On the Lake
In making love, as in every other branch of life, consistency is the quality most to be aimed at. To hedge is fatal. A man must choose the line of action which he judges to be best suited to his temperament, and hold to it without deviation. If Lochinvar snatches the maiden up onto his saddlebow he must continue in that vein. He must not fancy that, having accomplished the feat, he can resume the episode on lines of devotional humility. Prehistoric man, who conducted his courtship with a club, never fell into the error of apologising when his bride complained of headache.
Jimmy did not apologise. The idea did not enter his mind. He was feeling prehistoric. His heart was beating fast and his mind was in a whirl, but the one definite thought that came to him during the first few seconds of the journey was that he ought to have done this earlier. This was the right way—pick her up and carry her off and leave uncles and fathers and butter-haired peers of the realm to look after themselves. This was the way—alone together in their own little world of water with nobody to interrupt and nobody to overhear. He should have done it before. He had wasted precious, golden time hanging about while futile men chatted to her of things that could not possibly be of interest. But he had done the right thing at last—he had got her. She must listen to him now. She could not help listening. They were the only inhabitants of this new world.
He looked back over his shoulder at the world they had left. The last of the Dreevers had rounded the clump of laurels, and was standing at the edge of the water, gazing perplexedly after the retreating canoe.
“These poets put a thing very neatly sometimes,” said Jimmy, reflectively, as he dug the paddle into the water. “The man who said ‘Distance lends enchantment to the view,’ for instance. Dreever looks quite nice when you see him as far away as this, with a good strip of water in between.”
Molly, gazing over the side of the boat into the lake, abstained from feasting her eyes on the picturesque spectacle.
“Why did you do it?” she said, in a low voice.
Jimmy shipped the paddle and allowed the canoe to drift. The ripple of the water against the prow sounded clear and thin in the stillness. The world seemed asleep. The sun blazed down, turning the water to flame. The air was hot with the damp, electric heat that heralds a thunderstorm. Molly’s face looked small and cool in the shade of her big hat. Jimmy, as he watched her, felt that he had done well. This was, indeed, the way.
“Why did you do it?” she said again.
“I had to.”
“Take me back.”
“No.”
He took up the paddle and placed a broader strip of water between the two worlds, then paused once more.
“I have something to say to you first,” he said.
She did not answer. He looked over his shoulder again. His lordship had disappeared.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
She nodded. He filled his pipe carefully and lit it. The smoke moved sluggishly up through the still air. There was a long silence. A fish jumped close by, falling back in a shower of silver drops. Molly started at the sound and half turned.
“That was a fish,” she said, as a child might have done.
Jimmy knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
“What made you do it?” he asked abruptly, echoing her own question.
She drew her fingers slowly through the water without speaking.
“You know what I mean. Dreever told me.”
She looked up with a flash of spirit, which died
