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“Bobby,” he said, standing up straight and tall, “if she can only love a gentleman, and not a man, what’s the use of playing cards?”

One day, when he had to carry Lady Isobel ashore from a big York boat, something inside him got the best of his arms, and he held her tight–so tight that her eyes came down to his with a frightened look, and he heard a breath come from her that was almost a sob. They gazed at each other for a moment, and it was then that Thomas Jefferson Brown told her that he loved her–not in words, but in a way that she understood.

When he set her down on shore she was as white as death. From that day she treated him a little coolly–up to the last moment, out on the bay.

It was a bright, sunshiny day when the three–Lord Meton, Lady Isobel, and Thomas Jefferson Brown–set off in a big birchbark canoe, bound for Harrison’s Island, a dozen miles out from the mainland. But you can’t tell much about sunshine and calm on Hudson Bay. They’re like a jealous woman’s smile, masking something hidden. Four miles out, the wind came up; midway between the island and the mainland, it was a small gale. Even at that, Thomas Jefferson Brown would have made it all right if the beat of the sea hadn’t broken a rotten thread under the bow, letting the birch seam part with a suddenness that sent a little spurt of water up into Lady Isobel’s face.

What? No, this isn’t going to have the regulation hero-act end, in which Thomas Jefferson Brown saves the life of the lady he loves. It’s something different–something that Thomas Jefferson Brown never guessed at when the water spurted in, and Lady Isobel turned to him with a little scream, her beautiful blue eyes wide and filled with horror.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Here, take this jacket and hold it down tight over the seam. We’ll reach the island, all right.”

Lady Isobel held the jacket over the hole, and Thomas Jefferson Brown put a strength into his paddle that threatened to crack off the handle. After a minute or two, he saw a little trickle of water, beginning to ooze in about the edges of the jacket. He leaned back for an instant, and signaled Lord Meton to bend over toward him.

“Take off your clothes,” he said, so low that Lady Isobel couldn’t hear. “Can you swim?”

“Not a stroke,” said Lord Meton, and his face went as white as chalk; but it was no whiter than Thomas Jefferson Brown’s.

When a birchbark seam begins to part there’s no power on earth that will hold it when the canoe is heavily loaded. A few minutes later, the water was gushing in by the quart about Lady Isobel’s feet. She fought hard to hold it back. When at last she saw that it was hopeless, she turned again, to see Lord Meton in his underwear, and Thomas Jefferson Brown stripped of everything but his shirt and his buckskin trousers, which don’t water-sog. He laughed straight into her face, as if it was all an amusing joke; and then, suddenly, he began playing that banjo thing with his mouth.

It was all so strange, with the beat of the sea, the wail of the wind, and Thomas Jefferson Brown sitting there as if nothing were happening, that Lady Isobel just stared in astonishment, while the water gushed in about her. At last he put down his paddle, and stretched out both hands; and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that her two hands should come out to meet his.

“Listen,” he said, and his eyes were telling her again what they told her on the day when he brought her in from the York boat. “You’ll do as I tell you, won’t you? And you won’t be afraid?”

For an instant Lady Isobel looked at Lord Meton, shrinking and shivering in the stern of the canoe; and then she looked back to the other man’s face, and blue fires seemed to leap into her eyes.