"Being on the water has made me awfully sleepy," she said at the dinner table. "I think I shall write a letter to grandma and go to bed."
"You will get there as soon as the letter will."
"No. If it goes down in the morning it will get there by noon. That will be some help."
"It is moonlight," he pleaded. "Let's go over to the locks for an hour or so."
"No, I'm sleepy. I'm going to bed."
It was easy to see that he had in some way offended her.
He went out alone after she had gone to her room and walked up and down the sidewalk between the park and the locks. The place was most beautiful by moonlight, but he was not thinking much about its beauty or its wonders. His mind was dwelling on the strangeness of their position, on Bess's sweet childish womanliness, but most of all on Margaret and what she would do next. How glad he would be if he were only able to dispel the shadow that had fallen upon her.
The next morning as they stood beside the locks where they had agreed to stay until the boat went, Bess asked abruptly,
"Why did you write our names on the hotel register 'John Harcourt and sister?' I didn't like that very well, because—it seemed as if I—as if we—had done something you were ashamed of." Her lips were in a pretty childish pout.
He placed his hand on his heart with a gesture of exaggerated sentiment. "I did that because I wanted to make sure of your bearing my name at least once in your life. You know you told me the other day you intended to be an old maid, so this was the only way."