'Go on,' said Davies to me in English.

I stepped into the dinghy and motioned to take the sculls from her.
She seemed not to see me, and pushed off while Davies handed down her
jacket, which she had left in the cabin. Neither of us tried to
better the situation by conventional apologies. It was left to her,
at the last moment, to make a show of excusing herself, an attempt so
brave and yet so wretchedly lame that I tingled all over with hot
shame. She only made matters worse, and Davies interrupted her.

'_Auf Wiedersehen_,' he said, simply.

She shook her head, did not even offer her hand, and pulled away;
Davies turned sharp round and went below.

There was now no muddy Rubicon to obstruct us, for the tide had risen
a good deal, and the sands were covering. I offered again to take the
sculls, but she took no notice and rowed on, so that I was a silent
passenger on the stem seat till we reached her boat, a spruce little
yacht's gig, built to the native model, with a spoon-bow and tiny
lee-boards. It was already afloat, but riding quite safely to a rope
and a little grapnel, which she proceeded to haul in.

'It was quite safe after all, you see,' I said.

'Yes, but I could not stay. Herr Carruthers, I want to say something
to you.' (I knew it was coming; von Brüning's warning over again.) 'I
made a mistake just now; it is no use your calling on us to-morrow.'

'Why not?'