She was busy getting the dinghy ready to row her fiancé off to the Dryad.
She was over the side in her, busy and humming a tune as she worked, baling out water, fixing the cushions, and so on, while Satan watched her in a brooding manner over the rail.
A ghastly fear was working in the heart of Satan, the fear that Skelton might want the dinghy returned.
“Now, mind you,” said Satan, “and bring the boat back. I’d sooner lose me head than that boat. If you come back without her, I’ll chuck you in the harbor! I’m talking straight.”
Ratcliffe, who had just come on deck dressed for the occasion, came to the rail. Jude looked up at him and laughed.
He had seen her laughing before, he had seen her surly, meditative, brooding, weeping, flushed with anger, grumbling; but he had never seen her with a look like this,—happy.
Since last night something had come into her eyes that made her, when her eyes met his, beautiful. It was as though a lamp had been suddenly lit inside her, and the magical thing was the knowledge that he himself was the lamplighter.
He had created this new something that spoke to him right out, right to his heart, right to his soul!
He got into the dinghy, nodded to Satan, and they started, Jude at the sculls, her trousers rolled half-way up to the knees and her old panama on the back of her head.
“Go slow,” said he, “there’s lots of time.” Then, when they were out of hearing and he was alone with her at last: