then the musical rush of water into the pail.

"Sounds just like a pump," I said thoughtlessly.

He half withdrew his arm from mine with an abrupt twitch that indicated
temper.

"Oh! don't for God's sake play the fool," he said brutally.

A spasm of resentment shook me for a moment. I felt annoyed, remembering
how at school he would await his opportunity and then score off me with
some insulting criticism. He had never had any kind of sympathy for the
whimsical, and it is a manner that is apt to look inane and ridiculous
under certain kinds of censure. I swallowed my annoyance, on this
occasion. I remembered that Jervaise had a reasonable excuse, for once.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to play the fool. But you must admit that
it had a queer sound." I repeated the adjectival sentence under my breath.
It really was a rather remarkable piece of onomatopoeia. And then I
reflected on the absurdity of our conversation. How could we achieve all
this ordinary trivial talk of everyday in the gloom of this romantic
adventure?

"Oh! all serene," Jervaise returned, still with the sound of irritation in
his voice, and continued as if the need for confidence had suddenly
overborne his anger. "As a matter of fact she's his sister."

"Whose sister?" I asked, quite at a loss.

"Oh! Banks's, of course," he said.