Molly Welch and the manager caught Eden under the arms and lifted her aside, a red page dashed up with a bouquet, and the band struck up “Blue Bell.”  Eden laughed and bowed, took Molly’s arm, and ran up the sand in her black tights and silver slippers, dodging the friendly old women, and the gallant sports who wanted to offer their homage on the spot.

When she emerged from the tent, dressed in her own clothes, that part of the beach was almost deserted.  She stepped to her companion’s side and said carelessly:  “Hadn’t we better try to catch this boat?  I hope you’re not sore at me.  Really, it was lots of fun.”

Hedger looked at his watch.  “Yes, we have fifteen minutes to get to the boat,” he said politely.

As they walked toward the pier, one of the pages ran up panting.  “Lady, you’re carrying off the bouquet,” he said, aggrievedly.

Eden stopped and looked at the bunch of spotty cotton roses in her hand.  “Of course.  I want them for a souvenir.  You gave them to me yourself.”

“I give ’em to you for looks, but you can’t take ’em away.  They belong to the show.”

“Oh, you always use the same bunch?”

“Sure we do.  There ain’t too much money in this business.”

She laughed and tossed them back to him.  “Why are you angry?” she asked Hedger.  “I wouldn’t have done it if I’d been with some fellows, but I thought you were the sort who wouldn’t mind.  Molly didn’t for a minute think you would.”

“What possessed you to do such a fool thing?” he asked roughly.

“I don’t know.  When I saw her coming down, I wanted to try it.  It looked exciting.  Didn’t I hold myself as well as she did?”

Hedger shrugged his shoulders, but in his heart he forgave her.

The return boat was not crowded, though the boats that passed them, going out, were packed to the rails.  The sun was setting.  Boys and girls sat on the long benches with their arms about each other, singing.  Eden felt a strong wish to propitiate her companion, to be alone with him.  She had been curiously wrought up by her balloon trip; it was a lark, but not very satisfying unless one came back to something after the flight.  She wanted to be admired and adored.  Though Eden said nothing, and sat with her arms limp on the rail in front of her, looking languidly at the rising silhouette of the city and the bright path of the sun, Hedger felt a strange drawing near to her.  If he but brushed her white skirt with his knee, there was an instant communication between them, such as there had never been before.  They did not talk at all, but when they went over the gang-plank she took his arm and kept her shoulder close to his.  He felt as if they were enveloped in a highly charged atmosphere, an invisible network of subtle, almost painful sensibility.  They had somehow taken hold of each other.

An hour later, they were dining in the back garden of a little French hotel on Ninth Street, long since passed away.  It was cool and leafy there, and the mosquitoes were not very numerous.  A party of South Americans at another table were drinking champagne, and Eden murmured that she thought she would like some, if it were not too expensive.  “Perhaps it will make me think I am in the balloon again.  That was a very nice feeling.  You’ve forgiven me, haven’t you?”