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He shook his big frame, making the water fly as from the fur of a great, shaggy dog that has been in swimming. “I don’t give advice,” said he ungraciously. “When you give advice you make yourself responsible for the consequences. Besides, I don’t know enough about you to be able to judge.”

Her look up at him was the essence of implicit trust. “You know more about me than anyone in the world—more than I know myself.”

He laughed shortly. “I know nothing about you. Girls are not in my line.”

Her pretty face, the prettier for the dreariness all round, now took on an expression of hurt feelings. “What’s the matter, Chang?” she asked gently. “You’re not a bit friendly to-day.”

His face could not but soften before this sweet appeal. He said in a kindlier tone: “I think you ought to go home. I’m sure you’ll catch cold.”

She looked immensely relieved. “Oh, that’s why you’re cross, is it?” said she gayly. “Don’t worry about me, Chang. I’m as dry and snug as can be. Now, do be kind to me. I don’t see how I’m going to marry Pete—that is, this man. He’s a nice fellow—good-looking—has everything I want—but— Ye gods! He’s such a rotter!”