"Why, there must be a frightful current!" she said. What could make the river run at this pace--a weir--or a waterfall? She turned the boat's nose up stream and pulled. Ah, this was work! Then her eyes, fixed in the exertion of pulling, found that they saw no moving banks, but just one picture: a willow, a clump of irises, three poplars in the distance--and the foreground of the picture did not move. All her pulling only sufficed to keep the boat from going with the stream. And now, as the effort relaxed a little it did not even do this. The foreground did move--the wrong way. The boat was slipping slowly down stream. She turned and made for the bank, but the stream caught her broadside on, whirled the boat round and swept it calmly and gently down--towards the weir--or the waterfall. Betty pulled two strong strokes, driving the boat's nose straight for the nearest island, shipped the sculls with a jerk, stumbled forward and caught at an alder stump. She flung the chain round it and made fast. The boat's stern swung round--it was thrust in under the bank and held there close; the chain clicked loudly as it stretched taut. "Well!" said Betty. The island was between her and the riverside path. No one would be able to see her. She must listen and call out when she heard anyone pass. Then they would get another boat and come and fetch her away. She would not tempt fate again alone in that boat. She was not going to be drowned in any silly French river. She landed, pushed through the saplings, found a mossy willow stump and sat down to get her breath. It was very hot on the island. It smelt damply of wet lily leaves and iris roots and mud. Flies buzzed and worried. The time was very long. And no one came by. "I may have to spend the day here," she told herself. "It's not so safe in the boat, but it's not so fly-y either." And still no one passed. Suddenly the soft whistling of a tune came through the hot air. A tune she had learned in Paris. "_C'etait deux amants_." "Hi!" cried Betty in a voice that was not at all like her voice. "Help!--_Au secours_!" she added on second thoughts. "Where are you?" came a voice. How alike all Englishmen's voices seemed--in a foreign land! "Here--on the island! Send someone out with a boat, will you? I can't work my boat a bit." Through the twittering leaves she saw something white waving. Next moment a big splash. She could see, through a little gap, a white blazer thrown down on the bank--a pair of sprawling brown boots; in the water a sleek wet round head, an arm in a blue shirt sleeve swimming a strong side stroke. It was the lunatic; of course it was. And she had called to him, and he was coming. She pushed back to the boat, leaped in, and was fumbling with the chain when she heard the splash and the crack of broken twigs that marked the lunatic's landing.