He smiled back upon her, but there was the light of something deeper than
mirth in his eyes. "I call you my bird of Paradise," he said.

"How pretty!" said Chris. "Quite poetical, _preux chevalier_! You may go
on calling me that if you like, but it's too long for general use. And
what shall I call you? Tell me your Christian name."

"Bertrand, mademoiselle."

She held up an admonitory finger. "Chris!"

"Christine," he said, with his friendly smile.

She nodded. "Now don't forget! I think I shall call you Bertie because it
sounds more English. I'm going to dive now, so don't row any farther."

She sprang to her feet and stepped on to the thwart, where she stood
balancing, her arms above her head.

He waited motionless to see her go. But she remained poised for several
seconds, the sunlight full upon her slim, straight figure and bare,
upraised arms. Her hair, that had begun to dry, fluttered a little in the
breeze. The splendour of it almost dazzled the onlooker. He sat with
bated breath. She was like a young goddess, invoking the spirit of the
morning.

Suddenly she turned a laughing face over her shoulder. "Bertie!"

He pulled himself together. "Christine!" he answered, with a quick smile.