“Drown myself?” she returned scornfully.  “How could I—­when the sea doesn’t come up within a dozen yards of the cliff except at spring tide?”

“And I suppose it hadn’t occurred to you that this is a spring tide?” he said drily.  “In another hour or so there’ll be six feet of water where we’re standing now.”

The abrupt realisation that once again she had escaped death by so narrow a margin shook her for a moment, and she swayed a little where she stood, while her face went suddenly very white.

In an instant his arm was round her, supporting her.  “I oughtn’t to have told you,” he said hastily.  “Forgive me.  You’re tired—­and, merciful heavens! child, you’re half-frozen.  Your teeth are chattering with cold.”

He stripped off his coat and made as though to help her on with it.

“No—­no,” she protested.  “I shall be quite warm directly.  Please put on your coat again.”

He shook his head, smiling down at her, and taking first one of her arms, and then the other, he thrust them into the empty sleeves, putting the coat on her as one would dress a child.

“I’m used to having my own way,” he observed coolly, as he proceeded to button it round her.

“But you?—­” she faltered, looking at the thin silk of his shirt.

“I’m not a lady with a beautiful voice that must be taken care of.  What would Signor Baroni say to this afternoon’s exploit?”

“Oh, then you haven’t forgotten?” Diana asked curiously.

The intensely blue eyes swept over her face.

“No,” he replied shortly, “I haven’t forgotten.”

In silence he helped her into the boat, and she sat quietly in the stern as he bent to his oars and sent the little skiff speeding homewards towards the harbour.

She felt strangely content.  The fact that he had deliberately refused to recognise her seemed a matter of very small moment now that he had spoken to her again—­scolding her and enforcing her obedience to his wishes in that oddly masterful way of his, which yet had something of a possessive tenderness about it that appealed irresistibly to the woman in her.

Arrived at the quay of the little harbour, he helped her up the steps, slimy with weed and worn by the ceaseless lapping of the water, and the firm clasp of his hand on hers conveyed a curious sense of security, extending beyond just the mere safety of the moment.  She had a feeling that there was something immutably strong and sure about this man—­a calm, steadfast self-reliance to which one could unhesitatingly trust.

His voice broke in abruptly on her thoughts.

“My car’s waiting at the quayside,” he said.  “I shall drive you back to the Rectory.”

Diana assented—­not, as she thought to herself with a somewhat wry smile, that it would have made the very slightest difference had she refused point-blank.  Since he had decided that she was to travel in his car, travel in it she would, willy-nilly.  But as a matter of fact, she was so tired that she was only too thankful to sink back on to the soft, luxurious cushions of the big limousine.