She only realised how hard had been her grip when she relaxed it, and the consequent knowledge of the assistance she had needed gave her a momentary sense of loneliness now that it was removed. Gordon was just able to bridge the distance between the boulders with the full reach of his stride. That on which he now stood, however, was flat and broad, a platform that gave sure footing. "You will have to spring," he cried. "I can catch you. I am solid enough here." "I can't," she replied, "I daren't move." She stood looking into the water bubbling at her feet, and its swift flow made her feel giddy and insecure. "What am I to do?" she cried plaintively. "You must jump," Gordon answered. "It is the only way. Jump boldly! Don't be afraid, I will catch you." The ring of confidence in his voice enheartened her, and she tried to face the leap, but recoiled from it. Why had she refused his offer, was her first thought; why had he not renewed it, her second. The stone on which she was standing rolled with the movement, and she uttered a cry. "Dav--," she began, and shore the name of its tail. In a moment he was by her side, standing on the bed of the channel and the water up to his thighs. The girl clung to him. "I seem to have lost my nerve altogether," and she essayed a laugh unsuccessfully. "You are tired, that's all." "Yes, I am tired," she answered, "very tired." And she leaned her weight upon him, resting her arm on his shoulders. Their muscular breadth renewed in her the feeling of protection, and she waited expectantly for him to propose again to carry her, or, better still, to just lift her up without a word and so spare her a repast of her own words. To all seeming, however, Gordon was waiting too. "He means the request to come from me," she thought. As a matter of fact, nothing was farther from his reflections. The experience of the past few hours had rendered the perfect control of his faculties impossible, and the shuttles in the loom of his mind, set at work by the touch of any chance suggestion, were weaving his thoughts in a grotesque inconsequence. The tension of her attitude recalled the pedestal on which he had perched her, as she said, to the undoing of them both. He had a vision of a pair of tiny feet, delicately shod in grey kid slippers, straining to fix high heels firmly on a smooth sloping surface. Kate threw out a more patent suggestion. "I am very tired, and this stone is not over restful." "I was just thinking," he answered abstractedly, "it must be as awkward as my pedestal." The unconscious sarcasm stung her to the quick. "Don't laugh at me!" she pleaded, and realised that she was pleading. "Laugh at you?" he replied. "Good God! I have got to finish my laugh at myself first, and I think it will take me all my life."