"And when Finn reappeared, he was an old, old man, as old as a man may feel when his lady's attention wanders."
Joan colored and laughed, her eyes faintly mischievous, wholly apologetic.
"Finn's youth," Kenny gallantly assured her, "was restored to him by magic and surely there is magic in a woman's smile."
They motored on in a silence that Kenny found depressing. When would Arcady come again, he wondered rebelliously, wistful for the sparkle of that other summer when fairies, silver-shod, had danced upon the moonlit lake. The strain of worry had tired them both.
The wind swept coolly toward them sweet with pine. Wind and pine up here were always mingling. A night—a moon for lovers! The clasp of his arm tightened.
The peace of the night was insistent. After all with worry at an end Arcady might not lie so very far away—it was creeping into his heart, sweet with the music of many trees. Joan too perhaps—he stole a glance at the girl's face, colorless in the moonlight like some soft, exquisite flower—and drew up the emergency brake with a jerk. Her lashes were wet.
"Joan," he exclaimed, "you're not crying!"
She tried to smile and buried her face on his shoulder.
"I think," she said forlornly, "it—it's just because everything has turned out so—so nicely."
He motored homeward, ill at ease, aware after a time that the girl cradled in his arm had fallen asleep. Her tears worried him.