They glided underneath the bridge and left it quivering in the empty sunlight behind them; they swept silently over the mill-pond while Pauline held her breath. Then the banks closed in upon their canoe and Guy fought his way against the swifter running of the water, on and on, on and on between the long grasses of the uncut meadows, on and on, on and on past the waterfall where the Abbey stream joined the main stream and gave it a wider and easier course.
"Phew! it's hot," Guy exclaimed. "Sprinkle me with water."
She splashed him, laughing; and he seized her hand to kiss her dabbled fingers.
"Laugh, my sweet, sweet heart," he said. "It was your laugh I heard before I ever heard your voice, that night when I stood and looked at you and Margaret as if you were two silver people who had fallen down from the moon."
Again she sprinkled him, laughing, and again he seized her hand and kissed her dabbled fingers.
"They're as cool as coral," he said. "Why are you wrinkling your nose at me? Pauline, your eyes have vanished away!"
He plucked speedwell flowers and threw them into her lap.
"When I haven't got you with me," he said, "I have to pretend that the speedwells are your eyes, and that the dog-roses are your cheeks."
"And what is my nose?" she asked, clapping her hands because she was sure he would not be able to think of any likeness.
"Your nose is incomparable," he told her, and then he bent to his paddle and made the canoe fly along so that the water fluted to right and left of the bows. Ultimately they came to an island where all the afternoon they sat under a willow that was pluming with scanty shade a thousand forget-me-nots.