“As if anyone could get tired of you! Are you afraid of yourself?”
Again Gyp smiled.
“Not of loving too little, I told you.”
“How can one love too much?”
She drew his head down to her. But when that kiss was over, she only said again:
“No, Bryan; let's go on as we are. I'll make up to you when I'm with you. If you were to tire of me, I couldn't bear it.”
For a long time more he pleaded—now with anger, now with kisses, now with reasonings; but, to all, she opposed that same tender, half-mournful “No,” and, at last, he gave it up, and, in dogged silence, rowed her to the village, whence she was to take train back. It was dusk when they left the boat, and dew was falling. Just before they reached the station, she caught his hand and pressed it to her breast.
“Darling, don't be angry with me! Perhaps I will—some day.”
And, in the train, she tried to think herself once more in the boat, among the shadows and the whispering reeds and all the quiet wonder of the river.
XII