“I don’t know what you mean.  I only wish to be allowed to get at my clothes.  I really am suffering considerably, being quite unused to these long immersions.”

Peter looked around and caught sight of the neat pile of Mr. Fogo’s attire lying underneath the bank.  Light began to dawn on him; he turned to Miss Limpenny—­

“You’ll excuse me, ma’am, but was you present by any chance when—?”

“Heaven forbid!” she cried, and put her hands before her face.

“Then, beggin’ your pard’n, but how did you come here?”

“I was wandering on the bank—­and lost in thought—­and came upon these—­these articles.  And then—­oh!  I cannot, I cannot.”

“Furder question es,” pursued Peter, with an interrogative glance at his brother, who nodded, “why not ha’ gone away?”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Miss Limpenny, “I never thought of it!”

She gathered up her skirts, and disdaining the assistance of the gallant Paul, clambered up the bank, and with a formal bow left the Twins staring.  As she remarked tearfully to Lavinia that evening, “What one requires in these cases is presence of mind, my dear,” and she heaved a piteous little sigh.

“But consider,” urged the sympathetic Lavinia, “your feelings at the moment.  I am sure that under similar circumstances”—­she shuddered—­ “I should have behaved in precisely the same way.”

Mr. Fogo emerged in so benumbed a condition, his teeth chattered so loudly, and his nose had grown so appallingly blue, that the Twins, who had in delicacy at first retired to a little distance, were forced to return and help him into his clothes.  Even then, however, he continued to shiver to such an extent that the pair, after consulting in whispers for some moments, took off their coats, wrapped him carefully about, set him in the stern of his boat, and, jumping in themselves, pushed off and rowed rapidly homewards.

Their patient endeavoured to express his thanks, but was gravely desired not to mention it.  For ten minutes or so the Twins rowed in silence, at the end of this time Paul suddenly dropped the bow oar; then, leaning forward, touched his brother on the shoulder and whispered one word—­

“Shenachrum.”

“Or Samson,” said Peter.

“I think poorly o’ Samson.”

“Wi’ hes hair on?”

“Wi’ or wi’out, I don’t lay no store by Samson.”

“Very well, then—­Shenachrum.”

The rowing was resumed, and Mr. Fogo left to speculate on these dark sayings.  But as the boat drew near the column of blue smoke that, rising from the hazels on the left bank, marked the whereabouts of the Dearloves’ cottage, he grew aware of a picture that, perhaps by mere charm of composition, set his pulse extravagantly beating.

At the gate above the low cliff, her frock of pink print distinct against the hazels, stood Tamsin Dearlove, and looked up the river.