“Certainly,” said George, “and thank you.”
After Mrs. Wheeler had gone, it took George a full hour to finish the letter to his mother. Within two minutes, Cecily, seated beside him, became impatient and began lassoing the toe of her slipper with the cord of her handbag; and George, wanting an excuse to gaze at the slipper, which was worth it, offered a wager that she couldn’t do it once in ten.
“That is very silly,” said Cecily, “as I have been walking and am covered with dust.”
“My dear girl—” began George, embarrassed.
“You called me that before,” Cecily interrupted, “and I don’t like it. And now, if you don’t mind, I shall read while you finish your letter.” But she raised her eyes every few seconds to see if George was through writing, which accounts for the fact that he spoiled four sheets of the wonderfully embossed paper with blots, and found himself writing upside down on the fifth.
The early afternoon found George and Cecily together in a canoe on the lake in front of the hotel. The water was still and crystal clear, save where here and there a leaping trout or bass disturbed its surface. Above their heads the overhanging boughs swayed gently back and forth with the sinuous grace of an Indian punkah; and the water trickled from the up-sprung leaves with a soothing, continuous music. George, leaning back contentedly, lit a cigarette — his fifth in half an hour — and blew caressing rings around the neck of a greedy swan.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get overheated?” said Cecily sarcastically.
“No,” said George, in innocent surprise. “It’s perfectly safe here in the shade. Really, I’m quite cool.”
Cecily sat up straight and regarded him with speechless indignation. “Do you think,” she finally demanded, “that I came out in this boat to sit and watch you smoke? Look at that!” — pointing across the lake, where another canoe could be seen shooting along the father shore. “They started after we did. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Take me back to the hotel.”
At this command George sat up and regarded his companion with surprise. “What the dickens have I done?” he demanded. “What’s the trouble?”
“The trouble is,” said Cecily severely, “that this is a canoe and not a houseboat. It’s supposed to move. This swaying motion which I experience whenever you shift to a more comfortable position is no doubt very delightful, but I can get the same effect in a rocking chair, where there is no danger of being spilled into the water at every—”
“Do you mean,” George interrupted, “that you want to cross the lake?”
“I do,” said Cecily decidedly.
The young man sat up again, this time quite erect, and surveyed his companion with unfeigned astonishment. “Good heavens!” he said. “What for? Look at that!” — pointing to the float at the bottom of the steps leading to the hotel. It was quite two hundred feet away. “Haven’t we come all the way from there to here? I know we drifted, but we came, didn’t we? Anyway, why should we want to get anywhere? I don’t see why you want to go so fast.”
Cecily regarded him with unmixed contempt. “Very well,” she said finally. “If you will hand me that paddle, I shall return to the hotel. I suppose I must take you too, since you’re too heavy to throw overboard. Give me the paddle, please.”
At last George was aroused. Now, there was not less than two hundred pounds of George; and a mass of two hundred pounds, when once aroused, can do almost anything with a canoe. Within ten seconds of the commencement of the young man’s unwonted and sudden activity, the canoe was resting on the surface of the lake bottom upwards, with Cecily clinging desperately on one end, and George on the other.
“I asked you to hand me the paddle,” said Cecily in chilling tones.
George glared at her across the shiny bottom. “Here it is,” said he grimly, reaching for it as it floated by some two feet away.
“Be careful!” screamed Cecily; whereupon George, losing his hold on the canoe, floundered frantically about like a young whale, causing Cecily’s end, with Cecily attached, to sink some four or five feet into the lake. When she emerged, dripping with water and pink with rage, George had again caught hold of the canoe, and was trying to hold on to the paddle and wipe the water from his eyes with one hand.
“I suppose,” said Cecily, with withering contempt, “that you can swim?”
“I can,” said George, “but I hate to.”
“I honestly believe that, if I could, you would let me tow you ashore.”
“No-o” — doubtfully. “But if you could go to the hotel and get someone to fetch a boat—”
Cecily was speechless. Without another word, she gave the canoe a push against George’s breast, and started swimming toward the float with one hand, guiding her cargo with the other. George floated calmly on his back, eyeing the performance with admiring approval. By virtue of his position, he arrived at the float first; and, clambering upon it, he pulled first Cecily, and then the canoe, out after him.
“That was a jolly ducking, wasn’t it?” he said pleasantly.
During the week that followed, George Stafford was subjected, for the first time in his life, to discipline. Far from being offended at his willingness to be towed ashore, Cecily seemed to take an even deeper interest in him, and lost no time in undertaking his reformation. After many attempts, she found his wits incapable of exercise; but she had less difficulty with his arms and legs. By the end of the week he presented almost an athletic appearance, though it is true that he was eternally out of breath.
Behold him, then, on a Friday afternoon, dressed in flannels and batting wildly at a tennis ball which Cecily always managed to send just beyond his reach. George’s flannels were not immaculate — he tumbled too often in his vain lunges after the ball — his face was dripping with perspiration, and his collar had somewhat the appearance of a lettuce salad. Cecily stopped suddenly with her racket uplifted ready to serve, and began to laugh.
“What’s the matter?” her opponent demanded.
“Nothing,” said Cecily, “only—” and then she laughed again.
“Look a’ here,” said George hotly, “if you think—”
“But I don’t. I can’t. Are you tired?”
“No!” — indignantly.
“Well, I am. Besides, I want to talk. I’ve just thought of something I want to tell you.”
“What is it?” asked George, after they had walked over to a tree and seated themselves in the shade. He was lying flat on his back, with a cigarette between his lips, blinking stupidly at a fleecy, puffed-up cloud that showed through a rift in the leaves. Cecily, seated beside him, was idly stuffing the pocket of his shirt with grass. When she spoke it was in a slow, impressive tone.
“Mamma suspects,” said she.
George turned and looked at her uneasily. “Suspects what?”
“Why,” said Cecily, embarrassed, “don’t you know? Our — my — us.”
“Oh!” said George, in a tone of relief. Then, raising himself to his elbow in irritation, “I don’t like people who suspect,” he declared. “It’s uncomfortable, and it’s dangerous, and it’s bad form. Now, I never suspect anyone. Why should she?”
“Perhaps she saw us.”
“When?”
“Last night. You remember you kissed me good night on the veranda, and then followed me up to the hall and—”
“All right,” said George; “that settles it. I’m through. If every time you turn around—”
“Don’t be silly,” Cecily interrupted impatiently. “You know we’ve got to tell her.”
“My dear girl,” said George, “we have nothing to do with it. It’s you. You pulled me ashore. You made me play tennis. You called me George. And now — it’s up to you.”