“You are dull, Treevor,” she exclaimed pettishly.  “You really are.”

I had kissed her twice in the last ten minutes, but she hated my eyes to wander for a moment from her face to the sea.  She hated the least reference apparently to the landscape.  As long as I was talking to her and about her, admiring her dress or her hair, she was satisfied.

“Come along,” she said impatiently; “let us go on to the wood, leave off looking at that stupid sea.”

I rose reluctantly and we followed the road which turned inland again.  The wood was a world of grey shadows.  As we entered by a narrow trail leading from the road, the golden day outside was soon closed from us by the thick veils of hanging creeper and parasitical plants of all sorts that entwined round the gnarled and aged trees, and crossing and re-crossing from one to the other, netted them together.

Over the creepers again had grown grey-green lichens and long, shaggy moss, so that strands and fringes of it fell on every side, filling the interstices of the gigantic web that stretched from tree to tree, excluding the light of the sunlit sky.

Beneath, the lower branches of the trees were sad and sodden, overgrown with lichen, clogged with hanging wreaths of moss.  A river ran through the wood and at times, swelled by the melting snows, burst, evidently, in roaring flood over its banks.

Everywhere there were traces of recent floods, roots washed bare and places where the swirling waters had heaped up their debris of sticks and mud-stained leaves.  All along the damp ground the lowest branches of the trees, weighted with tangled moss, trailed, broken and bruised by the fierce rush of the current.  The trees themselves seemed centuries old, bent and gnarled and twisted into grotesque and ghostly forms.  In the dim twilight reigning here one could fancy one stood in some hideous torture-chamber, surrounded by writhing and distorted figures.  There an elbow, there a withered arm, a fist clenched in agony, seemed protruding from the sombre, sad-clothed trees, so weirdly knotted and twisted were the old cinder-hued boughs.

As we neared the river we could hear it rushing by long before we could see it, so thick was the undergrowth that hung low over it.

It seemed as if we might be approaching the black Styx through this melancholy wood where all seemed weeping in torn veils and ash-coloured garments.

No touch of depression affected my companion; she seemed as insensible to the grey solemnity, the dim mystery of the wood, as she had been to the vivid glory of the sea.  She slipped a little velvet hand into mine, and when we drew near to the hidden Styx, murmured softly: 

“We will find a dry place, Treevor, on the other side, and sit down among the trees.  Then you must take me in your arms and I will be your own Suzee.  I do not want my old husband any more.”

I stopped and looked down upon her.  Not even the sad light could dim the soft brilliance of her face.  It seemed to bloom out of the ashy shadows like an exquisite flower.  Her eyes were wells of fire beneath their velvet blackness.