It's a funny
fancy, I often think."
"I should love it," said Ernestine.
She wrote to Rivington that night, her second letter since her arrival,
and told him of her discovery. She added, "When are you coming down
again? There are plenty of trout in the stream." And she posted the
letter herself at the little thatched post-office, with a small,
strictly private smile. Oh, no, she wasn't bored, of course! But it
would be rather fun if he came.
On the evening of the following day, she was returning from her
customary stroll along the stream, when she spied a water-lily, yellow
and splendid, floating, as is the invariable custom of these flowers,
just out of reach from the bank. She made several attempts to secure it,
each failure only serving to increase her determination. Finally, the
evening being still and warm, and her desire for the pretty thing not to
be denied, she slipped off shoes and stockings and slid cautiously into
the stream. It bubbled deliciously round her ankles, sending exquisite
cold thrills through and through her. She secured her prize, and gave
herself up unreservedly to the enjoyment thereof.
An unmistakable whiff of tobacco-smoke awoke her from her dream of
delight. She turned swiftly, the lily in one hand, her skirt clutched in
the other.
"Don't be alarmed," said a quiet, casual voice. "It's only me."
"Only you!" she echoed, blushing crimson.
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