A couple of strokes, and, gripping the gunwale of her boat as he drew level, he steadied it to a standstill alongside his own. Jean’s eyes travelled swiftly from the squarish, muscular-looking hand that gripped the boat’s side to the face of its owner. He was decidedly an ugly man as far as features were concerned, with a dogged-looking chin and a conquering beak of a nose that jutted out arrogantly from his hatchet face. The sunlight glinted on a crop of reddish-brown hair, springing crisply from the scalp in a way that suggested immense vitality; Jean had an idea that it would give out tiny crackling sounds if it were brushed hard. His eyebrows, frowning in defence against the sun, were of the same warm hue as his hair and very thick; in later life they would probably develop into the bristling, pent-house variety. The eyes themselves, as Jean described them on a later occasion, were “too red to be brown”; an artist would have had to make extensive use of burnt sienna pigment in portraying them. Altogether, he was not a particularly attractive-looking individual--and just now the red-brown eyes were fixed on Jean in a rather uncompromising glare. “How on earth did you lose your oars?” he demanded--as indignantly as though she had done it on purpose, she commented inwardly. Her lips twitched in the endeavour to suppress a smile. “I haven’t the least idea,” she confessed. “I tied up under some trees further up and--and I suppose I must have fallen asleep. But still that doesn’t explain how I came to be adrift like this.” “A woman’s knot, I expect,” he vouchsafed rather scornfully. “A woman never ties up properly. Probably you just looped the painter round any old thing and trusted to Providence that it would stay looped.” She gave vent to a low laugh. “I believe you’ve described the process quite accurately,” she admitted. “But I’ve done the same thing before without any evil consequences. There’s hardly any current here, you know. I don’t believe”--with conviction--“that my loop could have unlooped itself. And anyway”--triumphantly--“the sculls couldn’t have jumped out of the boat without assistance.” The man smiled, revealing strong white teeth. “No, I suppose not. I fancy”--the smile broadening--“some small boy must have spotted you asleep in the boat and, finding the opportunity too good to be resisted, removed your tackle and set you adrift.” There was a sympathetic twinkle in his eyes, and Jean, suddenly sensing the “little boy” in him which lurks in every grown-up man, flashed back: “I believe that’s exactly what you would have done yourself in your urchin days!” “I believe it is,” he acknowledged, laughing outright. “Well, the only thing to do now is for me to tow you back. Where do you want to go--up or down the river?” “Up, please. I want to get back to Staple.” He threw a quick glance at her. “Surely you must be Miss Peterson?” She nodded. “Yes. How did you guess?”