s,
like hovering butterflies; and, in a clear space of water, each little
wave caught the sun and sky reflection, so that it seemed rimmed with
gold and set with a big, oval turquoise.

"Well--have I pleased you?" Freule Menela asked at last.

[Illustration: _"Well--have I pleased you?" Freule Menela asked at
last_]

The moment had come for an understanding. With my two hands, unaided I
had saved Phyllis, and now I must save--or lose--myself. Of course there
was no choice which to do. I had played my fish and caught it, and as it
was not the kind of fish I liked for dinner, I must tear it off the hook
and throw it back into the sea, wriggling. I told myself that it was a
bad, as well as an unattractive fish, that if I hadn't hooked it, most
surely it would have bolted the beautiful little golden minnow I had
been protecting. Still--still, there it was, smiling on the hook, that
bad fish, trusting the hand which had caught and would betray it. It
deserved nothing of that hand or any other hand; but suddenly, I found
mine powerless.

"Phyllis, Phyllis," I groaned in spirit, "you will be my death, for to
save you I caught this fish; now I may have to eat it, and it will
surely choke me."

Before my eyes stretched a horrible vista of years, lived through with
Freule Menela--mean little, vain, disloyal Freule Menela--by my side,
contentedly spending my money and bearing my name, while I faded like a
lovely lily on the altar of self-sacrifice.

In another instant I should have said yes, she had pleased me; she would
have answered; and just because she is a woman I should have had to say
something which she might have taken as she chose; so that it would have
been all over for Ronald Lester Starr; but at this moment the two boats
began to slow down. I suppose that Toon, at the steering-wheel of
"Waterspin," must have received a message, which I was too
preoccupied to hear; and as speed slackened, came the voice which others
know as that of my Aunt Fay.

Never had it been so welcome, sounded so sweet, as now, when it brought
my reprieve.

"Ronald dear," cooed the mock-Scottish accents, "you'd better get ready
at once to lunch on shore, for Jonkheer Brederode has another surprise
for us--and I know that by this time your hands, if not your face, are
covered with paint."

Wonderful woman! It was as if inspiration had sent her to my rescue. Not
that I am at all sure she would have laid herself out to rescue me from
an