He wiped it as dry as he could with his blazer, then turning aside, he opened his shirt and put the cold morsel in his bosom.

“Poor little beggar, he’s like ice!” he said, in a low voice.  “He would never have got to the shore; he’s so small.  If I’d some brandy!  We’ll get some at the ferry.  Can you row?”

“No,” she said.  “Yes; I mean, I’ll try.”

He held out his hand.

“Mind how you cross.  Take off your gloves first, or you’ll blister your hands.”

She obeyed, her eyes downcast.  They exchanged places and he showed her how to hold the sculls.

“You’ll do very well.  You can row as slowly as you like.  He’s alive; I can feel him move!  Poor little chap!  Sorry to trouble you, Miss Falconer, but the only chance of saving him is to keep him warm.”

She was silent far a moment, then she glanced at him.

“You’re fond of dogs?”

“Why, of course,” he answered.  “Aren’t you?”

“Y-es; but I don’t think I’d risk pneumonia for one.  You were feverishly hot just now, and that little beast must be stone cold; you’ll get bronchitis or something, Mr. Orme.”

“Not I!” he laughed, almost scornfully.  “He’s pulling round, poor little beast!  Here we are.”

He reached for his coat and wrapped the terrier in it, and quite unconscious of the girl’s watchful eyes, held the little black-and-tan head to his face for a moment.

“All right now?” he murmured.  “You’ve had a narrow squeak for it, old chappie!” With the dog under his arm, he helped Maude Falconer ashore and led the way to the hotel.

“Tea,” he said to the waiter; “but bring me some brandy and milk first—­and look sharp.”

Maude sank on to one of the benches in the beautiful garden in the centre of the lake and looked straight before her; and Stafford cuddled the dog up to him and looked impatiently for the waiter, greeting him when he came with: 

“What an infernal time you’re been!”

Then he poured a little of the brandy down the dog’s throat, and bending over him repeated the close three or four times; and presently the mite stirred and moved its head, and opening its eyes looked up into Stafford’s, and weakly putting out its tongue, licked his hand.

Stafford laughed—­for the well-known reason.

“Plucky little chap, isn’t he?” he said, with a moved man’s affectation of levity.  “He’s made a splendid fight for it and won through.  He’s a pretty little morsel—­a well-bred ’un:  wonder whom he belongs to?”

“To you—­at least his life does,” said Maude Falconer.  “You couldn’t have fought harder for it if it had been a human being.”

“Oh, a dog’s the next thing, you know,” he said, apologetically.  “I’m afraid it’s been an awful nuisance and trouble for you.  You haven’t blistered your hands, I hope?  Let me see!”

She stretched out her hands, palm upwards, and he took them and examined them.