The water babbled on between them, singing a little tinkling song all its own. But the girl neither saw nor heard aught of her surroundings. She was back in the heat and whirl of a crowded New York thoroughfare, back in the fierce grip of this man's arms, hearing his quiet voice above her head, bidding her not to be frightened.
Gradually the vision passed. The wild tumult at her heart died down. She became aware that he was waiting for her to speak, and she did so as one in a dream.
"I am glad you got it back," she said.
His brown, clean-shaven face smiled at her, but there was no hint of recognition in his eyes. He had totally forgotten her, of course, as she had always told herself he would. Did not men always forget? And yet—and yet—was he not still her hero—the man for whose sake all other men were less than naught to her?
Again Romeo growled deeply, and she tightened her hold upon him. The stranger, however, appeared quite unimpressed. He stood up and contemplated the stream that divided them with a measuring eye.
"Have I your permission to come across?" he asked her finally, in his soft Southern drawl.
She laughed a little nervously. He was not without audacity, notwithstanding his quiet manner.
"You can cross if you like," she said. "But it's all private property."
He paused, looking at her intently.
"It belongs to Earl Raffold, I have been told?"