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“Oh, it’s much too commonplace,” she protested. “Quite half the men I know are called Jack.”

And then for the first time she heard him laugh–a low, exultant laugh that sent the blood in a sudden rush to her cheeks.

“Shall we go back now?” she suggested, turning her face away.

He obeyed her instantly, and the punt began to glide back through the ripples.

No further word passed between them till, as they neared the house-boat, the high, keen notes of a flute floated out upon the tender silence.

Hilary glanced up sharply, the moonlight on her face, and saw a group of men in a punt moored under the shadowy bank. One of them raised his hand and sent a ringing salutation across the water.

Hilary nodded and turned aside. There was annoyance on her face–the annoyance of one suddenly awakened from a dream of complete enjoyment.

Her companion asked no question. He was bending vigorously to his work. But she seemed to consider some explanation to be due to him.

“That,” she said, “is a man I know slightly. His name is Cosmo Fletcher.”

“A friend?” asked the big man.

Hilary coloured a little.

“Well,” she said half-reluctantly, “I suppose one would call him that.”

* * * * *

“I believe you’re in love with Culver’s half-breed American,” said Cosmo Fletcher brutally, nearly three weeks later. He had just been rejected finally and emphatically by the girl who faced him in the stern of his skiff.

She was very pale, but her eyes were full of resolution as they met his.

“That,” she said, “is no business of yours. Please take me back!”

He looked as if he would have liked to refuse, but her steadfast eyes compelled him. Sullenly he turned the boat.

Dead silence reigned between them till, as they rounded a bend in the river and came within sight of the house-boat, Fletcher, glancing over his shoulder, caught sight of a big figure seated on the deck.

Then he turned to the girl with a sneer:

“It might interest Jack Merrivale to hear of this pretty little romance of yours,” he said.

The colour flamed in her cheeks.

“Tell him then!” she said defiantly.

“I think I must,” said Fletcher. “He and I are such old friends.”

He waited for her to tell him that it was on his account that they had quarrelled, but she would not so far gratify him, maintaining a stubborn silence till they drew alongside. Jacques rose to hand her on board.

“I hope you have enjoyed your row,” he said courteously.

“Thanks!” she returned briefly, avoiding his eyes. “I think it is too hot to enjoy anything to-day.”

The tea-kettle was singing merrily on the dainty brass spirit-lamp, and she sat down at the table forthwith.

Jacques stood beside her, silent and friendly as a tame mastiff. Perhaps his presence after what had just passed between herself and Fletcher made her nervous, or perhaps her thoughts were elsewhere and she forgot to be cautious. Whatever the cause, she took up the kettle carelessly and knocked it against the spirit-lamp with some force.

Jacques swooped forward and steadied it before it could overturn; but the dodging flame caught the girl’s muslin sleeve and set it ablaze in an instant. She uttered a cry and started up with a wild idea of flinging herself into the river, but Jacques was too quick for her. He turned and seized the burning fabric in his great hands, ripping it away from her arm and crushing out the flames with unflinching strength.

“Don’t be frightened!” he said. “It’s all right. I’ve got it out.”

“And what of you?” she gasped, eyes of horror on his blackened hands.

He smiled at her reassuringly.

“Well done, man!” cried Dick Culver. “It was like you to save her life while we were thinking about it. Are you hurt, Hilary?”

“No,” she said, with trembling lips. “But–but–“