"You are an Englishman, Mr. Pomeroy, and I am afraid that you would soon begin to cry out for your dinner." "Would not the gods feed us and have a care of us? To-day we are their children. I feel that I have but to summon Hebe, and she would come and wait upon us." "For my part, Minerva is the only one of the divinities whom I should care to summon." "So much wisdom would surely overweight our little boat." "But are we not rather short of ballast just at present?" asked Eleanor, slily. "Possibly so; but Minerva would certainly swamp us. I should greatly prefer the company of a certain juvenile, called by Schiller _der lächelnde Knabe_: he would make the proper ballast for such a voyage as ours." "Where I was at school in Germany they never would let us read Schiller," said Eleanor, demurely. "How happy those swans look!" she added, a moment afterwards, as if to change the subject. "Yes," said Gerald, "they find their happiness as certain people one sometimes meets with find theirs--in groping about amongst the mud--seeking what they can devour." "And yet how graceful they are!" "They are graceful enough as long as they are in their proper element. Out of it, they are as ungraceful as a scullion-maid in a drawing-room. And yet, I daresay that if they can think at all, they think that they look far more graceful during their perambulations ashore than ever they do in the water. But, then, how many of us think in the same way!" "Why, you are quite a cynic, Mr. Pomeroy. But it is considered fashionable nowadays for young men to be cynical, and one must be in the fashion, you know." Gerald laughed a little dismally. "I tasted the bitters of life at so early an age that I suppose the flavour of them still clings to my palate." "Pardon me if I have hurt your feelings!" said Eleanor, earnestly. "I certainly did not intend to do so. But see, the tide is on the turn, and we must turn with it." "Have we not time to go a little further? The afternoon is still young." "Yes, you shall row me round yonder tiny island, that looks so pretty from here, and then we must really go back." When they had rounded the islet, said Eleanor: "I am sure you must be tired, Mr. Pomeroy. Suppose you ship your oars and let the tide float us gently down." "I am not in the least tired; but, being a good boy, I like to do as I am bidden." Cunning Gerald knew that by floating down with the stream he should have half an hour more of Eleanor's society than if he had used his oars ever so gently. "Going back is not nearly so nice as going up stream," he remarked. "What makes you think so?" "Because our voyage will so soon be at an end." "But, when you have landed me, there will be no objection to your having the boat out for as many hours as you like."