written that, and it now came to me that I might have said to him one thing more:  Had he given Hortense the chance to know what his feelings to her had become?  But he would merely have answered that here it was the duty of a gentleman to lie.  Or, had he possibly, at Newport, ever become her lover too much for any escaping now?  Had his dead passion once put his honor in a pawn which only marriage could redeem?  This might fit all that had come, so far; and still, with such a two as they, I should forever hold the boy the woman’s victim.  But this did not fit what came after.  Perhaps it was the late sitting of the night before, and the hushed and strange solitude of my surroundings now, that had laid my mind open to all these thoughts which my reason, in dealing with, answered continually, one by one, yet which returned, requiring to be answered again; for there are times when our uncomfortable eyes see through the appearances we have arranged for daily life, into the actualities which lie forever behind them.

Going about thus in my boat, I rowed sleepiness into myself, and pushed into a nook where shade from some thick growth hid the boat and me from the sun; and there, almost enmeshed in the deep lattice of green, I placed my coat beneath my head, and prone in the boat’s bottom I drifted into slumber.  Once or twice my oblivion was pierced by the roaming honk of the automobile; but with no more than the half-melted consciousness that the Replacers were somewhere in the wood, oblivion closed over me again; and when it altogether left me, it was because of voices near me on the water, or on the bank.  Their calls and laughter pushed themselves into my drowsiness, and soon after I grew aware that the Replacers were come here to see what was to be seen at Udolpho—­the club, the old church, a country place with a fine avenue—­and that it was the church they now couldn’t get into, because my visit had disturbed the usual whereabouts of the key, of which Gazza was now going in search.  I could have told him where to find it, but it pleased me not to disturb myself for this, as I listened to him assuring Kitty that it was probably in the cabin beyond the bridge, but not to be alarmed if he did not immediately return with it.  Kitty, not without audible mirth, assured him that they should not be alarmed at all, to which the voice of Hortense supplemented, “Not at all.”  They were evidently in a boat, which Hortense herself was rowing, and which she seemed to bring to the bank, where I gathered that Kitty got out and sat while Hortense remained in the boat.  There was the little talk and movement which goes with borrowing of a cigarette, a little exclamation about not falling out, accompanied by the rattle of a displaced oar, and then stillness, and the smell of tobacco smoke.

Presently Kitty spoke.  “Charley will be back to-night.”

To this I heard no reply.

“What did his telegram say?” Kitty inquired, after another silence.