“Wonderful!” repeated Kenny with a vague air of enthusiasm.  But he rather wished she hadn’t said it.

“What will you do?”

“I shall find an inn,” said Kenny firmly, “and stay here until you do hear.”

“There is no inn.”

“Then,” said Kenny irresponsibly, “I shall camp here under the willow, buying beans.  I have a can opener.”

He caught in Joan’s eyes a glint of gold and laughter and glanced wistfully across the river at the house upon the cliff.  It was undeniably roomy.

“If only your house had been an inn!” he said.  “An old, old ramshackle inn, quaint and archaic like the punt yonder and your gown!  It’s such a wonderful spot.”

Joan met his eyes and made no pretense of misunderstanding.  She could not.

“Your uncle!” exclaimed Kenny with an air of inspiration and then looked apologetic.

The girl’s face flamed.  Oddly enough she looked at her gown.  Kenny wondered why.  He found her distress and the hot color of her face mystifying and lovely.

“I—­I know he would!” said Joan in a low voice and looked away.  “The house is large.  Rooms and rooms of it.  And only Uncle and I, save Hughie and his family.  Hughie works the farm and lives yonder in the kitchen wing.”

Kenny reached for his knapsack and started toward the boat.

“Thank Heaven, that’s settled!” he said pleasantly.  “You saw for yourself what Garry said about work.  Honestly, Miss West, I ought to work.  I ought to put in a summer sketching.  I can sketch here and wait.”

The punt, flat-bottomed and old, he proclaimed a delight.  When the girl did not answer he turned and found her staring.  She seemed a little dazed.

“I’m thinking,” said Joan, her eyes round and grave with astonishment, “how you seem always to have been here.”

He laughed, his color high.  His face, Joan thought, was much too young and vivid for anybody’s father.  Their eyes met in new and difficult readjustment and Kenny, his heart turbulent, turned back to the punt.

It was in his mind gallantly to scull the thing across.  The announcement brought Joan to the edge of the water in a panic.

“You’d scull us both into a rock!” she exclaimed.  “The river is full of them.  I know the best way over.”

“Professional jealousy!” retorted Kenny, his eyes droll and tender.  “I suppose you belong to the ferryman’s union.”  He dropped his knapsack into the boat and busied himself with the painter.  “If the boat had two oars,” he told her laughing, “or I one arm, I know I could manage.  As it is, one oar and two arms—­”

“It’s much better,” said Joan sensibly, “than two oars and one arm.  Please get in.”

She went to the stern and stood there, waiting, one hand upon the oar.  Fascinated, Kenny climbed in.

What a ferryman! he mused as Joan sculled the punt from shore.  What a gown and what a background!  The old brocade, flapping in the wind, was gold like the afterglow behind the gables and the soft, haunting shadows in the girl’s eyes and hair.  What an ecstasy of unreality!  Boat and ferryman seemed some exquisite animate medallion of another age.