“I don't know. It's a chance, that's all.”
“Do you think she 'll keep her promise?”
“Couldn't say. I 'll give her a chance, anyhow.”
She did keep it. Very shortly after five, while Beveridge was riding slowly up and down near the meeting-place, he saw her coming, and his eyes lighted up with surprise. He could not know how much thought had been given to the effect which pleased him so; he only observed that she looked like a young girl in her short wheeling skirt and leggings, and with her natty little cap and well-arranged hair.
They found St. Paul's Park gay with lights and music when they arrived. Dancing had been going on all the afternoon on the open-air platform. The ring-the-cane booth, the every-time-you-knock-the-baby-down-you-get-a-five-cent-cigar booth, were surrounded by uproarious country folk, with only here and there a city face among them. A little way down the slope, through the grove, ran the sluggish North Branch, a really inviting spot in the twilight; and to this spot it was that Beveridge led the way after checking the wheels.
“The boats don't amount to much,” he said to Madge, as he helped her down the bank, “but I guess we can have a good time, anyhow.”
She did not reply to this, but there was a sparkle in her eyes and a flush on her cheek, as she stepped lightly into the boat, that drew an admiring glance from Beveridge.
He took the clumsy oars, and pulled upstream, under the railroad bridge, past all the other boats, on into the farming country, where the banks were green and shaded.
“Pretty nice, isn't it?” said he.
She nodded. They could hear the music in the distance, and occasionally the voices; but around them was nothing but the cool depths of an oak copse. She was half reclining in the stern, looking lazily at the dim muscular outlines of her oarsman. “You row well,” she said.