The declining sun shone in Sam’s eyes as he rowed, and his companion, with her sunshade so disposed as to throw her face into shadow, observed him in calm silence.  The sunshade was of scarlet silk, and in the softened light stealing through it her cheek gained all the freshness of maidenhood.  Her white gown, gathered about the waist with a band of scarlet, not only fitted her figure to perfection, but threw up the colour of her skin into glowing relief.  To Sam she appeared a miracle of coolness and warmth; and as yet no word was spoken.

At length, and not until they had passed the Dearloves’ cottage, she asked—­

“Why were you late?”

“Was I missed?”

“Of course.  You younger men of Troy seem strangely blind to your duties—­and your chances.”

The last three words came as if by after-thought; Sam looked up quickly.

“Chances?  You said ‘chances,’ I believe?”

“I did.  Was there not Miss Saunders, for instance?”

Sam’s lip curled.

“Miss Saunders is not a chance; she is a certainty.  Did she, for instance, announce that the beauty of the day made her sad—­that even amid the wealth of summer something inside her whispered ’Autumn’?”

“She did.”

“She always does; I have never picnicked with Miss Saunders but something inside her whispered ’Autumn’!”

“A small bore,” suggested Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, “that never misses fire.”

Sam tittered and resumed—­

“If it comes to duties, your husband sets the example; he hasn’t moved from the club window to-day.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed shortly, “I never asked you to imitate my husband.”

Sam ceased rowing and looked up; he was familiar with the tone, but had never heard it so emphasised before.

“Look here,” he said; “something’s wrong, that’s plain.  It’s a rude question, but—­does he neglect you?”

She laughed with some bitterness, and perhaps with a touch of self-contempt.

“You are right; it is a rude question:  but—­he does not.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then she added—­

“So it’s useless, is it not, to wish that he would?”

The blood about Sam’s heart stood still.  Were the words a confession or a sneer.  Did they refer to her or to him?  He would have given worlds to know, but her tone disclosed nothing.

“You mean—?”

She gave him no answer, but turned her head to look back.  In the distant boats they had fallen to singing glees.  In this they obeyed tradition:  for there is one accomplishment which all Trojans possess—­of fitting impromptu harmonies to the most difficult air.  And still in the pauses of the music Miss Limpenny would exclaim—­

“Did you ever see anything more lovely?”

And the Admiral would reply—­

“Really, I never did.”

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys could not, of course, hear this.  But the voices of the singers stole down the river and touched her, it may be, with some sense of remorse for the part she was playing in this Arcadia.