"How perfectly absurd for him to get into the water in that way," she
said, looking mechanically in the direction in which he had vanished.

"Well, Mrs. Vervain, it isn't best to be too grateful to people," said
Ferris, "but I think we must allow that if we were in any danger,
sticking there in the mud, Don Ippolito got us out of it by putting his
shoulder to the oar."

"Of course," assented Mrs. Vervain.

"In fact," continued Ferris, "I suppose we may say that, under
Providence, we probably owe our lives to Don Ippolito's self-sacrifice
and Miss Vervain's knowledge of German. At any rate, it's what I shall
always maintain."

"Mother, don't you think you had better go in?" asked Florida, gently.
Her gentleness ignored the presence, the existence of Ferris. "I'm
afraid you will be sick after all this fatigue."

"There, Mrs. Vervain, it'll be no use offering _me_ a glass of
wine. I'm sent away, you see," said Ferris. "And Miss Vervain is quite
right. Good night."

"Oh--_good_ night, Mr. Ferris," said Mrs. Vervain, giving her
hand. "Thank you so much."

Florida did not look towards him. She gathered her mother's shawl about
her shoulders for the twentieth time that day, and softly urged her in
doors, while Ferris let himself out into the campo.