At first the young man did not answer, but sat staring in front of him, then, he said simply:
“It’s awfully good of you, Beatrice. I won’t forget it.”
It was a wonderful autumn night, moonlight, cold, clear and brilliant. She stepped in beside him and wrapped herself in one of his greatcoats. They started swiftly down the avenue of trees.
“No, not fast,” begged the girl, “I want to talk to you.”
The car checked and rolled forward smoothly, sometimes in deep shadow, sometimes in the soft silver glamour of the moon; beneath them the fallen leaves crackled and rustled under the slow moving wheels. At the highway Winthrop hesitated. It lay before them arched with great and ancient elms; below, the Hudson glittered and rippled in the moonlight.
“Which way do you want to go?” said Winthrop.
His voice was very grateful, very humble.
The girl did not answer.
There was a long, long pause.
Then he turned and looked at her and saw her smiling at him with that light in her eyes that never was on land or sea.