'Cool,' thought Waring.

And cool she looked truly to a man who had paddled two days in a hot
sticky fog, as, clad in white, she sat still and placid on her airy
perch. Her hair, of the very light fleecy gold seldom seen after
babyhood, hung over her shoulders unconfined by comb or ribbon,
felling around her like a veil and glittering in the horizontal
sunbeams; her face, throat and hands were white as the petals of a
white camellia, her features infantile, her cast-down eyes invisible
under the full-orbed lids. Waring gazed at her cynically, his boat
motionless; it accorded with his theories that the only woman he had
seen for months should be calmly eating and reading stolen sweets. The
girl turned a page, glanced up, saw him, and sprang forward smiling;
as she stood at the balcony, her beautiful hair fell below her knees.

'Jacob,' she cried gladly, 'is that you at last?'

'No,' replied Waring, 'it is not Jacob; rather Esau. Jacob was too
tricky for me. The damsel, Rachel, I presume!'

'My name is Silver,' said the girl, 'and I see you are not Jacob at
all. Who are you, then?'

'A hungry, tired man who would like to come aboard and rest awhile.'

'Aboard? This is not a boat.'

'What then?'

'A castle,--Castle Nowhere.'