She yielded with a pretty indifference, none the less charming because
there was no flattery in it for him. He now sat facing her, pushing his
oars through the water; and she stole a curious glance at his
features--slightly sullen for the moment--noticing his well-set,
well-shaped head and good shoulders.

That fugitive glance confirmed the impression of recognition in her
mind. He was what she had expected in breeding and physique--the type
usually to be met with where the world can afford to take its leisure.

As he was not looking at her she ventured to continue her inspection,
leaning back, and dropping her bare arm alongside, to trail her fingers
through the sunlit water.

"Have we not rowed far enough?" she asked presently. "This fog is
apparently going to last forever."

"Like your silence," he said gaily.

Raising her eyes in displeasure she met his own frankly amused.

"Shall I tell you," he asked, "exactly why I insisted on rowing you in?
I'm afraid"--he glanced at her with the quick smile breaking again on
his lips--"I'm afraid you don't care whether I tell you or not. Do you?"

"If you ask me--I really don't," she said. "And, by the way, do you know
that if you turned around properly and faced the stern you could make
better progress with your oars?"