"What do you keep in here, Harry?" she asked.
"Oh, some old forgotten things."
"Your charts?"
"My word, yes. I believe they are there," he said with an air of surprise.
"Will you show them to me?" Cynthia asked. "I should like to see them."
"I don't know where the key is. It's lost."
"Are you sure?"
"For all the chance I have of finding it, dear, it might just as well be at the bottom of the Serpentine."
Harry had not moved away from the fireplace. Cynthia, her back toward him, had been playing with the brass handles of the locked drawer. Now she swung round suddenly. Often she had wondered what errand had taken him from the house at one o'clock of the morning after she had revealed her heart to him in this very room. Now she guessed the truth. It was on that night that he had begun to build up his dykes against the encroachments of his longings. She faced him; her eyes burned steadily upon his face, thoughtful, but betraying nothing of her thoughts.
"Yes," she said, "I suppose it might as well be in the Serpentine." She turned again to the drawer.