"To Mr. Rosenthal," she said gaily.
"For my own part," I said, "I shall drink to Winston Churchill. I
find his habit of upsetting baskets a most commendable one."
We passed on unhurriedly to the cheese and cake courses. As our
acquaintance mellowed, the almost nervous flippancy with which we had
bridged over its earlier stages gradually died away. Quite
unaffected, and gifted with a most refreshing sense of humour, the
bronze-haired girl proved a delightful companion. She had evidently
been brought up in an unusual sort of atmosphere, for she chatted
away easily about art and books and people, without a trace of that
embarrassing shyness of opinion which seems to be the hallmark of a
conventionally educated girl.
On the ground that she was chiefly responsible for their present
condition, she insisted on helping me wash up our scanty luncheon
outfit.
"A plate is such a nice, clean thing by nature," she said, swishing
it about in the water, "that I always think one ought to attend to it
immediately after lunch. It must suffer horribly if you leave it
lying about all covered with grease or jam. I think I shall start a
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Plates."
When we had packed away everything into the basket, she accepted one
of those excellent Russian cigarettes which my friend M. Demidoff
makes for me, and, arranging our cushions, we lay back luxuriously in
our respective punts and talked aimlessly, volubly, and cheerfully
about everything on God's earth. From where I was lying I could just
see the tip of her nose, and I directed my conversation to that.
By three o'clock I had decided firmly that arrangements must be made
which would involve the possibility of our meeting freely in the
future; and when at four she sat up suddenly and said she must go
home, I had arrived at a state in which I was quite unable to
contemplate existence without her.
"We shall expect you to tea to-morrow, then," she said, "provided it
is not too violent a break in the simple life. Of course, if Mr.
George likes to bring his banjo--" Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
"No--no," I interrupted; "don't let us be morbid on a day like this."
She gave me her dear, cool, slender hand for a moment, and then, with
the blessed Winston Churchill sitting up amiably in the stern of the
punt, she pushed off down the stream.
It was not until she had vanished round the bend that I remembered I
had never asked her name.
George was still away when I got back. As it was after five,
however, I decided not to wait for him. I put the kettle on the
"Primus," and walked about the bungalow, singing "Who is Sylvia?" and
other similar ballads until it boiled over. Then I made tea, and sat
down in a delightfully contented frame of mind. I was so happy that
I ate all the sardines before I noticed what I was doing.
George came in a moment afterwards.
"Hallo!" he said. "Still at breakfast?"
"I breakfasted, George," I answered, "exactly two centuries ago."
"Well, that must account for the horrible energy with which you're
eating now." He looked round the table. "Here, hang it," he added,
in a sudden tone of horror, "you've finished the sardines!"
"I am sorry, George," I said penitently. "I have been in a very
exalted, spiritual meditation, and I did not notice what I was
eating."
He sat down with a disbelieving grunt.
"Well, next time an attack comes on, get out some of those mouldy
biscuits. This is a nice way to treat one who has been slaving for
your benefit. I was looking forward to those sardines all the way
home."
"What have you been doing?" I inquired, in a timely effort to turn
the conversation into a less poignant channel.
George opened a bottle of Bass, and helped himself to an impressive
slice of cake.
"Well," he said, "I shoved our names down for the double punting all
right. As far as I can see, we've got a jolly good chance, if you'll
only take it seriously."
"I take it very seriously," I interrupted.
"Barton was there," went on George; "he is entering with his brother.
It would be rather fun if we were to run up against them in the
finals."
"We are certain to do that," I observed, "if we get so far."
"I went back to Barton's place to lunch," said George. "And, oh, by
the way, I found out all about the bronze-haired girl at Otter's
Holt. Barton knows her well."