"What did he _say_ when he got in? He didn't just step on like you were
a street car, did he? Speak up! What ex--"

"That's just it! That's just what he did. He climbed in, and didn't say
a word. I at once told him to get out. That is what we talked about
_entirely_. Then at last he got out, in--in an angry way--shaking the
boat, and then I--I went over--"

"It passes belief! The young ruffian, after upsetting you, simply
deserted--Were you in the water long? Are you cold? Do you feel like you
were going to have chills?"

"No--I feel well enough, physically.... But--mamma--"

"You're going to have chills--that's it. No wonder! Wait! I never in my
life!..."

She whisked into her bedroom, and, returning with the travelling-bag,
produced a bijou flask with a silver top that turned into a little
drinking-cup. Into the top she swiftly poured a thimbleful of excellent
French brandy.

"Drink this. It will keep them off." And she added: "It passes
belief...."

And then she walked the floor, her unexpected hands, so oddly stubbed
and thick, clasped before her.

"You called out to him, of course? You screamed for his assistance?"