Fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder.
All was in such turmoil within her. But no good to show it! No good at all! She broke away from him, and went out into the twilight, distraught, but unconvinced. All was indeterminate and vague within her, like the shapes and shadows in the garden, except—her will to have. A poplar pierced up into the dark-blue sky and touched a white star there. The dew wetted her shoes, and chilled her bare shoulders. She went down to the river bank, and stood gazing at a moonstreak on the darkening water. Suddenly she smelled tobacco smoke, and a white figure emerged as if created by the moon. It was young Mont in flannels, standing in his boat. She heard the tiny hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the water.
"Fleur," came his voice, "don't be hard on a poor devil! I've been waiting hours."
"For what?"
"Come in my boat!"
"Not I."
"Why not?"
"I'm not a water-nymph."
"Haven't you ANY romance in you? Don't be modern, Fleur!"
He appeared on the path within a yard of her.