She nodded encouragingly to him.

“I am Dick’s cousin,” she said.  “He will tell you all about me if you ask him.”

“I will certainly ask,” the stranger said in his soft, foreign drawl.

“Don’t forget!” called Hilary, as she splashed back into deep water.  “And tell him to bring you to dine on our house-boat at eight to-night!  Bertie and I will be delighted to see you.  We were meaning to send a formal invitation.  But no one stands on ceremony on the river—­or in it either,” she laughed to herself as she swam away with swift, even strokes.

“I shouldn’t have asked him in that way,” she explained to her brother afterwards, “if he hadn’t been rather shy.  One must be nice to foreigners, and dear Dickie’s society undiluted would bore me to extinction.”

“I don’t think we had better give him a knife at dinner,” remarked Bertie.  “I shouldn’t like you to be scalped, darling.  It would ruin your prospects.  I suppose my only course would be to insist upon his marrying you forthwith.”

“Bertie, you’re a beast!” said his sister tersely.

* * * * *

“We have taken you at your word, you see,” sang out Dick Culver from his punt.  “I hope you haven’t thought better of it by any chance, for my friend has been able to think of nothing else all day.”

A slim white figure danced eagerly out of the tiny dining-saloon of the house-boat.

“Come on board!” she cried hospitably.  “The Badger will see to your punt.  I am glad you’re not late.”

She held out her hand to the new-comer with a pretty lack of ceremony.  He looked more than ever like a backwoodsman, but it was quite evident that he was pleased with his surroundings.  He shook hands with her almost reverently, and smiled in a quiet, well-satisfied way.  But, having nothing to say, he did not vex himself to put it into words—­a trait which strongly appealed to Hilary.

“His name,” said Dick Culver, laughing at his cousin over the big man’s shoulder, “is Jacques.  He has another, but, as nobody ever uses it, it isn’t to the point, and I never was good at pronunciation.  He is a French Canadian, with a dash of Yankee thrown in.  He is of a peaceable disposition except when roused, when all his friends find it advisable to give him a wide berth.  He—­”

“That’ll do, my dear fellow,” softly interposed the stranger, with a gentle lift of the elbow in Culver’s direction.  “Leave Miss St. Orme to find out the rest for herself!  I hope she is not easily alarmed.”

“Not at all, I assure you,” said Hilary.  “Never mind Dick!  No one does.  Come inside!”

She led the way with light feet.  Her exile from London during the season promised to be less deadly than she had anticipated.  Unmistakably she liked Dick’s wild man.

They found Bertie in the little roselit saloon, and as he welcomed the stranger Culver drew Hilary aside.  There was much mystery on his comical face.