'I have not done long again?' she asked, looking down, breaking another silence.
'No, no, oh no,' said I hurriedly: 'not done wrong again. Only, I could not suppose that you would count up the days. You are ... considerate. Perhaps—but—'
'Tell Leda?'
'Perhaps.... I was going to say ... you might come fishing with me....'
'O luck!' she went softly.
I was pierced by a sense of my base cowardice, my incredible weakness: but I could not at all help it.
I took the flowers, and we went down to the south side, where my boat lay; I threw out some of the fish from the well; arranged the tackle, and then the stern cushions for her; got up the sails; and out we went, she steering, I in the bows, with every possible inch of space between us, receiving delicious intermittent whiffs from her of ambergris, frangipane, or some blending of perfumes, the morning being bright and hot, with very little breeze on the water, which looked mottled, like colourless water imperfectly mixed with indigo-wash, we making little headway; so it was some time before I moved nearer her to get the par for fixing on the three-triangle flight, for I was going to trail for salmon or large lake-trout; and during all that time we spoke not a word together.
Afterwards I said:
'Who told you that flowers are proper to birthdays? or that birthdays are of any importance?'
'I suppose that nothing can happen so important as birth,' says she: 'and perfumes must be ploper to birth, because the wise men blought spices to the young Jesus.'