Jenny shivered.  She had forgotten everything but her grievance.

“How long will you be away?” she asked.

“Three months at least.  Does it matter?” She reproached his bitterness by a glance.  “Jenny, dear,” he went on; “when time’s so short, is it worth while to quarrel?  You see what it is:  if you don’t try and love me you’ll go home unhappy, and we shall both be unhappy.  I told you I’m not a free man.  I’m not.  I want to be free.  I want to be free all the time; and I’m tied ...”

“You’re still talking about yourself,” said Jenny, scornfully, on the verge of tears.

vi

Well, they had both made their unwilling attempts at reconciliation; and they were still further estranged.  They were not loving one another; they were just quarrelsome and unhappy at being able to find no safe road of compromise.  Jenny had received a bitter shock; Keith, with the sense that she was judging him harshly, was sullen with his deeply wounded heart.  They both felt bruised and wretched, and deeply ashamed and offended.  And then they looked at each other, and Jenny gave a smothered sob.  It was all that was needed; for Keith was beside her in an instant, holding her unyielding body, but murmuring gentle coaxing words into her ear.  In an instant more Jenny was crying in real earnest, buried against him; and her tears were tears of relief as much as of pain.

CHAPTER IX:  WHAT FOLLOWED

i

The Minerva slowly and gently rocked with the motion of the current.  The stars grew brighter.  The sounds diminished.  Upon the face of the river lights continued to twinkle, catching and mottling the wavelets.  The cold air played with the water, and flickered upon the Minerva’s deck; strong enough only to appear mischievous, too soft and wayward to make its presence known to those within.  And in the Minerva’s cabin, set as it were in that softly rayed room of old gold and golden brown, Jenny was clinging to Keith, snatching once again at precarious happiness.  Far off, in her aspirations, love was desired as synonymous with peace and contentment; but in her heart Jenny had no such pretence.  She knew that it was otherwise.  She knew that passive domestic enjoyment would not bring her nature peace, and that such was not the love she needed.  Keith alone could give her true love.  And she was in Keith’s arms, puzzled and lethargic with something that was only not despair because she could not fathom her own feelings.

“Keith,” she said, presently.  “I’m sorry to be a fool.”

“You’re not a fool, old dear,” he assured her.  “But I’m a beast.”

“Yes, I think you are,” Jenny acknowledged.  There was a long pause.  She tried to wipe her eyes, and at last permitted Keith to do that for her, flinching at contact with the handkerchief, but aware all the time of some secret joy.  When she could speak more calmly, she went on:  “Suppose we don’t talk any more about being...what we are...and forgiving, and all that.  We don’t mean it.  We only say it...”