“I could cry!” she said, indignantly, and maintained a dangerous silence until they drifted into the still waters of the outlet where the starlight silvered the sedge-grass and feathery foliage formed a roof above.

Into the leafy tunnel they floated, oars shipped; she, cheek on hand, watching the fire-flies on the water; he, rid of his cigarette, motionless in the stern.

After they had drifted half a mile she seemed disinclined to resume the oars; so he crossed with her, swung the boat, and drove it foaming against the silent current.

On the return they said very little.  She stood pensive, distraite, as he tied the boat, then—­for the road was dark and uneven—­took his arm and turned away beside him.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been very amusing company,” he ventured.

She tightened her arm in his—­a momentary, gentle pressure: 

“I’m merely too happy to talk,” she said.  “Does that answer satisfy you?”

Touched deeply, he took her hand which rested so lightly on his sleeve—­a hand so soft and fine of texture—­so cool and fresh and slender that the youth and fragrance of it drew his lips to it.  Then he reversed it and kissed the palm.

“Why, Louis,” she said, “I didn’t think you could be so sentimental.”

“Is that sentimental?”

“Isn’t it?”

“It rather looks like it, doesn’t it?”

“Rather.”

“Did you mind?”

“No....  Only—­you and I—­it seems—­superfluous.  I don’t think anything you do could make me like you more than I do.”

“You sweet little thing!”

“No, only loyal, Kelly.  I can never alter toward you.”

“What’s that?  A vow!”

“Yes—­of constancy and of friendship eternal.”

“’Nomen amicitia est; nomen inane fides!—­Friendship is only a name; constancy an empty title,’” he quoted.

“Do you believe that?”

“Constancy is an honest wish, but a dishonest promise,” he said.  “You know it lies with the gods, Valerie.”

“So they say.  But I know myself.  And I know that, however I may ever care for anybody else, it can never be at your expense—­at the cost of one atom of my regard for you.  As I care for you now, so have I from the beginning; so will I to the end; care more for you, perhaps; but never less, Louis.  And that I know.”

More deeply moved than he perhaps cared to be, he walked on slowly in silence, measuring his step to hers.  In the peace of the midnight world, in the peace of her presence, he was aware of a tranquillity, a rest that he had not known in weeks.  Vaguely first, then uneasily, he remembered that he had not known it since her departure, and shook off the revelation with instinctive recoil—­dismissed it, smiled at it to have done with it.  For such things could not happen.

The woods were fragrant as they passed; a little rill, swelling from the thicket of tangled jewel-weed, welled up, bubbling in the starlight.  She knelt down and drank from her cupped hands, and offered him the same sweet cup, holding it fragrantly to his lips.