He paddled into the bank, got out, and pulled the canoe in sideways; then he arranged the cushions for her in the middle.
“Now, get out while I hold the canoe, and sit there where I can see you. Light of my eyes,” he added in a whisper, but she heard it.
He gave her a hand, put a rug over her, and asked:
“Are you comfy?”
But she could not speak, and they started again.
The lift and sweep of the paddle, and the smooth regularity thereof, were soothing.
“Oh, the sorrow of the world!” she said. “It is unavailing. The awful mistakes, the terrible partings—it is too dreadful. When did you come back to London?”
“In December.”
“Why did you not come to see me before—in the summer?”
“Because I did not know your address—is that reason enough?—and I was rather afraid of you. I could not come.”