"No, it wasn't good for him. Father says it soured him. His name was
Swithin."

"What a corking name!"

"Do you know that we're getting farther off, not nearer? This river
flows."

"Splendid!" cried Mont, dipping his sculls vaguely; "it's good to meet a
girl who's got wit."

"But better to meet a young man who's got it in the plural."

Young Mont raised a hand to tear his hair.

"Look out!" cried Fleur. "Your scull!"

"All right! It's thick enough to bear a scratch."

"Do you mind sculling?" said Fleur severely. "I want to get in."

"Ah!" said Mont; "but when you get in, you see, I shan't see you any
more to-day. Fini, as the French girl said when she jumped on her bed
after saying her prayers. Don't you bless the day that gave you a French
mother, and a name like yours?"

"I like my name, but Father gave it me. Mother wanted me called
Marguerite."