She cast down her eyes. “Was that—the catastrophe that happened up here?”
While he wished to keep the information from her as long as possible, he could not lie to her. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t ask any more.”
She bowed as one who acknowledges the receipt of information not personally important. “One more question; was he a good man, a man you respected?”
“Oh, yes,” he said quickly.
She looked puzzled. “Strange I should feel no sense of loss,” she murmured.
“You had been parted from him for a long time.”
They fell silent. The charming spell that had bound them was effectually broken. She shivered delicately, and announced her intention of going to bed.
But in the morning she showed him a shining morning face. To arise refreshed from sleep, hungry for one’s breakfast, and eager for the day’s journey, was enough for her just now. She was living in her instincts. Her instinct told her that Stonor loved her, and that sufficed her. The dreadful things might wait.
Having ascended the last rapid, they found they could make better time by paddling the dug-out, keeping close under the shore as the Kakisas did, and cutting across from side to side on the inside of each bend to keep out of the strongest of the current. The seating arrangement was the same as at their start; Mary in the bow, Stonor in the stern, and Clare facing Stonor. Thus all day long their eyes were free to dwell on each other, nor did they tire. They had reached that perfect stage where the eyes confess what the tongue dares not name; that charming stage of folly when lovers tell themselves they are still safe because nothing has been spoken. As a matter of fact it is with words that the way to misunderstanding is opened. One cannot misunderstand happy eyes. Meanwhile they were satisfied with chaffing each other.
“Martin, I wonder how old I am.”