"Not beyond the bow of the canoe, Roger."
"Work back to me," he said, "very carefully."
She came, obediently.
"Now turn slowly, so that you face the bow, and lean back with your head against my knees."
This also, she did.
"This is much nicer," she whispered, nestling her head comfortably against him. "So much nicer."
By leaning over until his back nearly cracked he was able to find her lips in the darkness.
"I was thinking of the brush that overhangs the stream," he explained when he had straightened himself. "Sitting up as you were it might have caused you hurt."
There was a little silence between them, in which his paddle caught again its slow and steady rhythm. Then,
"Were you thinking only of the brush, Roger—and of the hurt it might cause me?"