“Get in,” he said. It was good to find something he could do. He helped her carefully into the boat, and held it firmly until she had arranged herself in the stern, her feet against the cleats, and her white skirts tucked about her. Then he took his seat, shipped the oars and shoved off. He swept the boat out into the deep water, and rowed away up the lake. He rowed precisely, feathering his oars, that she might see how much a master he was. They did not speak for a long time. First one, then the other, of the little islands swept darkly by; the water slapped the bow of the boat as Marley urged it forward. The lights of the pavilion on the shore twinkled an instant, then went out behind the trees. They could hear the distant mellow thrumming of the guitar and the tinkle of the mandolin.
“Are you too cool?” he asked presently.
“Oh, no, not at all!” said Lavinia.
“Hadn’t you better take my coat?” Marley persisted. The idea of putting his coat about her thrilled him.
“You’ll need it,” she said.
“No, I’ll be warm rowing.”
She shook her head, and smiled. They drifted on. Still came the distant strumming of the guitar and the tinkle of the mandolin. Marley thought of the young people dancing, and then, noting Lavinia’s silence, he asked, out of the doubt that was his one remaining annoyance:
“Wouldn’t you rather be back there dancing?”
“No, no!” she answered softly.
“I’m ashamed of myself.”