Before she could answer, the steamer came abreast of them, and so close that the swell from its screw set the slight, narrow skiff dancing and plunging on the waves.

Maude uttered a faint cry and leant forward, and Stafford, fearing she was going to rise, stretched out his hand, and touching her knee, forced her into her seat again, and kept her there until the swell had subsided.

The colour flooded her face at the pressure of his strong hand, which was like a steel weight, and she caught her breath.  Then, as he took his hand away and resumed rowing, he said:  “I beg your pardon!  I was afraid you were going to get up—­a girl I once had in a boat did so and we upset.”

“The boat is very small,” she said, in a low voice, almost one of apology.

“Oh, it’s all right, so long as you sit still, and keep your head,” he said.  “It could ride over twice as big a swell as this.”

She looked at him from under her lowered lids with a new expression in her face, a faint tremor on her lips; and, as if she could not meet his eyes, she glanced back with an affectation of interest at the steamer.  As she did so, something dropped from it into the lake.

“What was that?” she said.  “Something fell overboard.”

“Eh?  A man, do you mean?” he asked, stopping.

“Oh, no; something small.”

“A parcel, somebody’s lunch, perhaps,” he said; and he rowed on.

She leant back, her eyes downcast; she still seemed to feel that strong, irresistible pressure of his hand under which she had been unable to move.

“There ought to be an echo somewhere here,” he said, as they came opposite one of the hills, and he gave the Australian “coo-ee!” in a clear, ringing voice, which the echo sent back in a musical imitation.

“How true it was!” she said, and she opened her lips and sang a bar or two of the “Elsie” song.

Stafford listened to the echo, which was almost as soft and sweet as the girl’s notes.

“What a wonderful voice you have!” he said, almost unconsciously.  “I never heard a sweeter.  What was that you sang?”

“That thing of Wagner’s,” she replied; and quite naturally she began the air and sang it through.

Stafford let the boat drift and leant upon the oars, his eyes fixed on her face, a rapt and very eloquent admiration in his own.

“Ah—­beautiful!” he said in a low voice.  “What a delight it must be to you to be able to sing like that!  I can understand a whole theatre crying over that song sung as you sing it!”

She glanced at him with an affectation of languid amusement; but she was watching him intently.

“That’s not the best in the opera,” she said.  “I like this better;” and she sang the “Swan” song; sang it so low that he leant forward to catch the notes which flowed like silver from her soft, red lips; and when she finished it he drew a long breath and still leant forward looking at her.