“The dinghy’s mine and Minna’s.”
This he said for the benefit of Herbert Fry, who turned and looked, dog-like, upward at Minna.
A large chuckle escaped Serge.
In the evening, as they turned westward under a glorious sunset, Bennett elected to sit in the bows of the bigger boat. Fry and Serge rowed, and Annette and Minna sat in the stern. Bennett dreamed vaguely. His blood ran warmly through his veins, his brain glowed, and the wind and the water sang to him. He was satisfied as he had never been. When he thought of Minna and Haslam it was with a drowsy, delicious envy. To be together, gently gliding down the river with the evening shadows chasing each other under the trees. To be together—in a little boat—he and Annette . . . Annette . . . Annette . . .
In her lap Annette fingered the heather and wild flowers that Bennett had given her and smiled softly to herself. Serge saw her smile, and said:
“Happy?”
“Oh! yes.”
To Bennett her voice sounded distant and very lovely, and it seemed to him that she was speaking to him, for him.
Presently they passed the little boat nestling by the bank under a plane-tree. Mary called out:
“You’ll be late.”