For the remainder of the day and evening Tressa seemed subdued—not restless, not nervous, but so quiet that, sometimes, glancing at her askance, Cleves involuntarily was reminded of some lithe young creature of the wilds, intensely alert and still, immersed in fixed and dangerous meditation.
About five in the afternoon they took their golf sticks, went down to the river, and embarked in the canoe.
The water was glassy and still. There was not a ripple ahead, save when a sleeping gull awoke and leisurely steered out of their way.
Tressa’s arms and throat were bare and she wore no hat. She sat forward, wielding the bow paddle and singing to herself in a low voice.
“You feel all right, don’t you?” he asked.
“Oh, I am so well, physically, now! It’s really wonderful, Victor—like being a child again,” she replied happily.
“You’re not much more,” he muttered.
She heard him: “Not very much more—in years,” she said.... “Does Scripture tell us how old Our Lord was when He descended into Hell?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, startled.