“Oh, yes, I did.”

“But how?  The bungalow was as dark as a tomb.  There wasn’t a light anywhere.  I made sure of that before I came over.”

“I know.  I put the light out, but I was sitting by the window in the dark, looking out at the storm.  Then I saw some one coming up the hill, and it was you.”

“Then you saw me push it under the door?”

“Yes.  What made you stay on the step so long after you had pushed it under?”

“Me? . . .  Oh,” hastily, “I wanted to make sure it was—­er—­under.  And you found it and read it—­then?”

“Of course.  I couldn’t imagine what it could be, and I was curious, naturally.”

“Ruth!”

“I was.”

“Nonsense!  You knew what it must be.  Surely you did.  Now, truly, didn’t you?  Didn’t you, dear?”

“Why should I? . . .  Oh, your sleeve is wet.  You’re soaking wet from head to foot.”

“Well, I presume that was to be expected.  This water out here is remarkably damp, you know, and I was in it for some time.  I should have been in it yet if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Don’t!” with a shudder, “don’t speak of it.  When I saw you fall into that tide I . . .  But there! you mustn’t stay here another moment.  Go home and put on dry things.  Go at once!”

“Dry things be hanged!  I’m going to stay right here—­and look at you.”

“You’re not.  Besides, I am wet, too.  And I haven’t had my breakfast.”

“Haven’t you?  Neither have I.”  He forgot that he had attempted to have one.  “But I don’t care,” he added recklessly.  Then, with a flash of inspiration, “Why can’t we breakfast together?  Invite me, please.”

“No, I shall not.  At least, not until you go back and change your clothes.”

“To hear is to obey.  ‘I go, but I return,’ as the fellow in the play observes.  I’ll be back in just fifteen minutes.”

He was back in twelve, and, as to make the long detour about the marshes would, he felt then, be a wicked waste of time and the marshes themselves were covered with puddles left by the tide, his “dry things” were far from dry when he arrived.  But she did not notice, and he was too happy to care, so it was all right.  They got breakfast together, and if the coffee had boiled too long and the eggs not long enough, that was all right, also.

They sat at opposite sides of the little table, and he needed frequent reminding that eating was supposed to be the business on hand.  They talked of his father and of Ann Davidson—­whom Ruth declared was to be pitied—­of the wonderful coincidence that that particular paper, the one containing the “Personal” and the “Engagement in High Life” item, should have been on top of the pile in the boathouse, and—­of other things.  Occasionally the talk lapsed, and the substitute assistant merely looked, looked and smiled vacuously.  When this happened Miss Graham smiled, also, and blushed.  Neither of them thought of looking out of the window.