"Louis! Stop it! Do you know you are positively corrupt to do such a thing at such a time as this?"
"Well, it's all I know, Valerie—"
"I could cry!" she said, indignantly, and maintained a dangerous silence until they drifted into the still waters of the outlet where the starlight silvered the sedge-grass and feathery foliage formed a roof above.
Into the leafy tunnel they floated, oars shipped; she, cheek on hand, watching the fire-flies on the water; he, rid of his cigarette, motionless in the stern.
After they had drifted half a mile she seemed disinclined to resume the oars; so he crossed with her, swung the boat, and drove it foaming against the silent current.
On the return they said very little. She stood pensive, distraite, as he tied the boat, then—for the road was dark and uneven—took his arm and turned away beside him.
"I'm afraid I haven't been very amusing company," he ventured.
She tightened her arm in his—a momentary, gentle pressure:
"I'm merely too happy to talk," she said. "Does that answer satisfy you?"
Touched deeply, he took her hand which rested so lightly on his sleeve—a hand so soft and fine of texture—so cool and fresh and slender that the youth and fragrance of it drew his lips to it. Then he reversed it and kissed the palm.