“It is just as well,” said Du Meresq, laughing, “we have not got to take him back again.  The experiment of three in that birchen bark is too expensive to repeat; and we could not throw him over as a Jonah, since he is the only one of us who can swim.”

“I ought never to have come!  And, now we can think of wordly things again, only fancy what a rage papa will be in about it all.  It is a curious fact, Bertie, the very last time we were out together, an accident made us late—­at the tobogganing party, you know.”

They had entered the station, which appeared perfectly deserted.  The last official had gone up with Lascelles’ train.  A fire, however, was still burning, and the coal-box only half empty.

Du Meresq threw the coals on the waning embers, which responded with a cheerful fizz to the needed aliment, and then began unlacing Cecil’s wet boots as she sat before the fire.

These two had often been alone together without the slightest embarrassment, but now, perhaps from the reaction, and being a little unstrung, she felt a most distressing sensation of it, besides which the anti-climax of his occupation after her overwrought anticipations of their mutual fate, gave her an hysterical inclination to a peal of laughter.

He did not speak, and silence was too oppressive to be endured, so she cast about desperately for a topic of conversation.  The entourage was not particularly suggestive,—­four white-washed walls and the chair she was sitting on comprised the furniture.  Clearly she could not take in ideas with her eyes, which, indeed, were fixed with a magnetic persistence on the mathematically straight parting of Bertie’s back hair, which would scarcely furnish subject for remark.

“There go a ruined pair of Balmorals,” said he, placing them in the fender.  “Your stockings are wet through, too; why don’t you take them off?”

“I prefer them wet,” said Cecil, rather scandalized.

“Shall I go and walk about outside while you dry them?” asked he, with a smile.

“Yes, do.  Walk away altogether if you like.”

“But you might drown yourself going home alone, and haunt my remaining days.

  ’They made her a grave too cold and damp
     For a soul so warm and true,
   And all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
     She paddles her white canoe,’”—­

quoted Bertie, jestingly.

Cecil disliked his manner, and felt irritated; but there she was, imprisoned, bootless, in her chair, while those appendages smoked damply in the fender.

“Dear me,” she said, impatiently, “will that wind never drop!  When shall we be able to start, I wonder?”

“Don’t you think we are more comfortable here?” said he, lazily.  “Remember what a row there’ll be when we get home.”

“Yes, you always get me into scrapes.  Why did you bother me into this idiotic expedition?”

“Didn’t you ask me to take you?” provokingly.  “I am sure I understood you wished to come.”