Cytherea saw that he noted in her face what had passed in her heart, and that noting it, he continued as decided as before.  She was inwardly distressed.  She had not meant him to translate her words about returning home so literally at the first; she had not intended him to learn her secret; but more than all she was not able to endure the perception of his learning it and continuing unmoved.

There was nothing but misery to come now.  They would step ashore; he would say good-night, go to London to-morrow, and the miserable She would lose him for ever.  She did not quite suppose what was the fact, that a parallel thought was simultaneously passing through his mind.

They were now within ten yards, now within five; he was only now waiting for a ‘smooth’ to bring the boat in.  Sweet, sweet Love must not be slain thus, was the fair maid’s reasoning.  She was equal to the occasion—­ladies are—­and delivered the god—­

‘Do you want very much to land, Mr. Springrove?’ she said, letting her young violet eyes pine at him a very, very little.

‘I?  Not at all,’ said he, looking an astonishment at her inquiry which a slight twinkle of his eye half belied.  ‘But you do?’

’I think that now we have come out, and it is such a pleasant evening,’ she said gently and sweetly, ’I should like a little longer row if you don’t mind?  I’ll try to steer better than before if it makes it easier for you.  I’ll try very hard.’

It was the turn of his face to tell a tale now.  He looked, ’We understand each other—­ah, we do, darling!’ turned the boat, and pulled back into the Bay once more.

‘Now steer wherever you will,’ he said, in a low voice.  ’Never mind the directness of the course—­wherever you will.’

‘Shall it be Creston Shore?’ she said, pointing to a stretch of beach northward from Budmouth Esplanade.

‘Creston Shore certainly,’ he responded, grasping the sculls.  She took the strings daintily, and they wound away to the left.

For a long time nothing was audible in the boat but the regular dip of the oars, and their movement in the rowlocks.  Springrove at length spoke.

‘I must go away to-morrow,’ he said tentatively.

‘Yes,’ she replied faintly.

‘To endeavour to advance a little in my profession in London.’

‘Yes,’ she said again, with the same preoccupied softness.

‘But I shan’t advance.’

’Why not?  Architecture is a bewitching profession.  They say that an architect’s work is another man’s play.’

’Yes.  But worldly advantage from an art doesn’t depend upon mastering it.  I used to think it did; but it doesn’t.  Those who get rich need have no skill at all as artists.’

‘What need they have?’

’A certain kind of energy which men with any fondness for art possess very seldom indeed—­an earnestness in making acquaintances, and a love for using them.  They give their whole attention to the art of dining out, after mastering a few rudimentary facts to serve up in conversation.  Now after saying that, do I seem a man likely to make a name?’