But his words fastened the heavy land on her spirit, knocked at the habit of obedience.  Her stroke of the arms paused.  She inclined to his example, and he set it shoreward.

They swam silently, high, low, creatures of the smooth green roller.  He heard the water-song of her swimming.  She, though breathing equably at the nostrils, lay deep.  The water shocked at her chin, and curled round the under lip.  He had a faint anxiety; and, not so sensible of a weight in the sight of land as she was, he chattered, by snatches, rallied her, encouraged her to continue sportive for this once, letting her feel it was but a once and had its respected limit with him.  So it was not out of the world.

Ah, friend Matey!  And that was right and good on land; but rightness and goodness flung earth’s shadow across her brilliancy here, and any stress on ‘this once’ withdrew her liberty to revel in it, putting an end to perfect holiday; and silence, too, might hint at fatigue.  She began to think her muteness lost her the bloom of the enchantment, robbing her of her heavenly frolic lead, since friend Matey resolved to be as eminently good in salt water as on land.  Was he unaware that they were boy and girl again?—­she washed pure of the intervening years, new born, by blessing of the sea; worthy of him here!—­that is, a swimmer worthy of him, his comrade in salt water.

‘You’re satisfied I swim well?’ she said.

‘It would go hard with me if we raced a long race.’

‘I really was out for France.’

‘I was ordered to keep you for England.’  She gave him Browny’s eyes.

‘We’ve turned our backs on Triton.’

‘The ceremony was performed.’

‘When?’

‘The minute I spoke of it and you splashed.’

‘Matey!  Matey Weyburn!’

‘Browny Farrell!’

‘Oh, Matey! she’s gone!’

‘She’s here.’

’Try to beguile me, then, that our holiday’s not over.  You won’t forget this hour?’

‘No time of mine on earth will live so brightly for me.’

’I have never had one like it.  I could go under and be happy; go to old
Triton, and wait for you; teach him to speak your proper Christian name. 
He hasn’t heard it yet,—­heard “Matey,”—­never yet has been taught
“Matthew."’

‘Aminta!’

‘Oh, my friend! my dear!’ she cried, in the voice of the wounded, like a welling of her blood:  ’my strength will leave me.  I may play—­not you:  you play with a weak vessel.  Swim, and be quiet.  How far do you count it?’

‘Under a quarter of a mile.’

‘Don’t imagine me tired.’

‘If you are, hold on to me.’

‘Matey, I’m for a dive.’

He went after the ball of silver and bubbles, and they came up together.  There is no history of events below the surface.