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"Dissembling to the last," Peg murmured.

When they reached the dock, however, he dissembled no longer. He surveyed the wet welcoming faces that surrounded him, listened to the cacophony of delighted voices for an instant, and then said quite simply, "Where's my girl?"

Of course they twitted him a little, being modern young people; but they answered. And in obedience to their answers he directed his glance toward the float that was anchored offshore. There were two figures on it, one large and mannish ("That's Larry Vane," somebody volunteered) the other little and slender and somehow breath-taking. Cecily. With a scarlet suit. . . . As he looked she flung up an arm in recognition and greeting.

"See you later," said Jock, and dived, and swam, using a swift crawl stroke and making a great churn of foam.

Half way to the float he lifted his head and saw Larry Vane almost beside him, going the other way. Larry grinned at him, and panted, "I abdicate—by request—you lucky stiff!"

Cecily was alone on the float. He could see her sitting there, at the edge, hugging her bare white knees in the curve of her arms, resting her chin upon them, smiling at him . . . just ahead of him. . . .

All the things in the world that he wanted were just ahead of him. . . .

He buried his face in the cool green, and swam faster.