Never had there been a more perfect night than that whereon Dick Hardcastle’s coming of age was celebrated.  Only enough wind stirred to toy softly with the gay little pennons streaming from the many boats winding their way to the rendezvous, and to throw dancing shadows of light upon the water from the torches at their prow.  All along the banks of the lake, where high hills shut out the moonlight and bound the shore in an almost Egyptian darkness, rafts were stationed at intervals, blazing with colored lights.  The sound of distant music floated far down upon the air, mingled with the swish of steady oars and laughter and happy voices as the occupants of the various boats called out merrily to each other across the water, or here and there broke into light-hearted song.  Denham’s boat glided stilly along through all this carnival-like revelry.  Gerald was not in a mood for talking, and he felt little inclined to disturb her.  It was companionship enough merely to glance at her ever and anon as she sat silently in the stern, the red ropes of the tiller drawn loosely around her slender waist like a silken girdle.  He wondered idly what she was thinking of.  Her broad hat threw too deep a shadow for him to see her face save when they neared one of the beacon rafts; then it was suddenly in brilliant illumination, and it was impossible not to watch for these moments of revelation, which lit her up to such rare beauty.  He fancied he could almost see her thoughts as there flashed across her face some new, swift expression more speaking than words,—­now a noble thought, he was sure; now an odd fancy, now a serious meditative mood, that held her every sense and faculty in thrall at once.  Through all her revery she never forgot her duty with the rudder, though she quite forgot her oarsman.  She made no effort whatever toward his entertainment, and he felt sure that he could do no more toward hers than simply not to obtrude himself upon her.  Were there many, he wondered, even among her chosen friends (in whose ranks he could not count himself), who would have enjoyed this silent sail with her so much as he?  They neared the destined spot all too soon for him, and Gerald at last roused herself.

“Are we there now?  I had no idea it was so far.”

“It is not far enough,” answered Denham, resting a moment on his oars as he looked around.  “Nothing surely can be devised, even in this pleasure-ingenious society, so enjoyable as I have found our evening sail.”

“Why do you go to the party at all then?” asked Gerald, abruptly.  “It isn’t compulsory, is it?  After you land me, are you not at liberty to row off if you prefer?”

“Ah, but I don’t prefer,” Halloway said gayly, resuming his oars.  “I expect to be very greatly entertained there too.  There is almost always something to be got out of every thing, and anyway I particularly like parties.”

“I hate them.”

“Yes, because you do not care for people.  I like them just because I do care for people, and parties are but people collectively instead of individually, you know.”