“Please go back now,” she begged. “Smoke yourself, take me home slowly and say nothing.”
He obeyed, but his knees were shaking when he stood up. Slowly, a foot at a time, they passed from the mesh of the lilies out into the broad stream. Almost as they did so, the yellow rim of the moon came up over the low hills. As they turned into their own stream, the light was strong enough for him to see her face. She lay there like a ghost, her eyes half closed, the only touch of colour in the shining strands of her beautiful hair. She roused herself a little as they swung around. He paused, leaning upon the pole.
“You are not angry?” he asked.
“No, I am not angry,” she answered. “Why should I be? But I cannot talk to you about it tonight.”
They glided to the edge of the landing-stage. A servant appeared and secured the punt.
“Is Sir Timothy back yet?” Margaret enquired.
“Not yet, madam.”
She turned to Francis.
“Please go and have a whisky and soda in the smoking-room,” she said, pointing to the open French windows. “I am going to my favourite seat. You will find me just across the bridge there.”
He hesitated, filled with a passionate disinclination to leave her side even for a moment. She seemed to understand but she pointed once more to the room.