"Nothing the matter with that kid?" he inquired at last.
She shook her head.
"Come with me then."
Without a word he turned and walked off through a French window which he held open for her. As she passed him she glanced at his set face and gave a slight choking sound. He supposed he was rather amusing. No matter, though; let her laugh if she wanted. He led her across the lawn to the tennis court where they had met this afternoon and beyond it, until at last they reached a small boathouse with a dock beside it. To this was moored a canoe. He had seen that canoe this afternoon and it had recurred to him on his drive. He stooped and unfastened the painter and then held out his hand.
"Get in there," he commanded.
She hesitated. "It's not safe, really—"
"Get in," he repeated almost roughly.
She settled herself in the bow and he took his place at the other end. With a few vigorous strokes of the paddle he sent the canoe skimming out over the dark, mysterious water. The night was close and heavy and gave the impression of being warm; it was in fact as warm as a Bar Harbor night at the end of August can respectably be. The sky was thickly overcast, but the moon which had so shamelessly failed to keep the evening's engagements shed a dim radiance through the clouds, as though generously lending them credit for having shut in a little daylight after the normal time for its departure. Not a breeze stirred; the surface of the water was still, though not with the glassy stillness of an inland lake. Low, oily swells moved shudderingly about; when they reached the shore they broke, not with the splashy cheerfulness of fair weather ripples, but gurgling and sighing among the rocks, obviously yearning for the days when they would have a chance to show what they really could do in the breaking business. The whole effect was at once infinitely calm and infinitely suggestive.
Neither of the occupants of the canoe spoke. Harry paddled firmly along and Madge watched him with a sort of fascination. At length her eyes became accustomed to the light and she was able to distinguish the grim, unchanging expression of his features and his eyes gazing neither at her nor away from her but simply through her. His face, together with the deathly calm of the night, worked a strange influence over her; it became more and more acute; she felt she must either scream or die of laughing....
"Well, Harry?"