“Oh, lovely, in a way; but let’s go back to the river and make the most of it.”

They took boat at ‘The Bowl of Cream,’ the river inn where Summerhay was staying.  To him, who had been a rowing man at Oxford, the river was known from Lechlade to Richmond; but Gyp had never in her life been on it, and its placid magic, unlike that of any other river in the world, almost overwhelmed her.  On this glistening, windless day, to drift along past the bright, flat water-lily leaves over the greenish depths, to listen to the pigeons, watch the dragon-flies flitting past, and the fish leaping lazily, not even steering, letting her hand dabble in the water, then cooling her sun-warmed cheek with it, and all the time gazing at Summerhay, who, dipping his sculls gently, gazed at her—­all this was like a voyage down some river of dreams, the very fulfilment of felicity.  There is a degree of happiness known to the human heart which seems to belong to some enchanted world—­a bright maze into which, for a moment now and then, we escape and wander.  To-day, he was more than ever like her Botticelli “Young Man,” with his neck bare, and his face so clear-eyed and broad and brown.  Had she really had a life with another man?  And only a year ago?  It seemed inconceivable!

But when, in the last backwater, he tied the boat up and came to sit with her once more, it was already getting late, and the vague melancholy of the now shadowy river was stealing into her.  And, with a sort of sinking in her heart, she heard him begin: 

“Gyp, we must go away together.  We can never stand it going on apart, snatching hours here and there.”

Pressing his hand to her cheeks, she murmured: 

“Why not, darling?  Hasn’t this been perfect?  What could we ever have more perfect?  It’s been paradise itself!”

“Yes; but to be thrown out every day!  To be whole days and nights without you!  Gyp, you must—­you must!  What is there against it?  Don’t you love me enough?”

She looked at him, and then away into the shadows.

“Too much, I think.  It’s tempting Providence to change.  Let’s go on as we are, Bryan.  No; don’t look like that—­don’t be angry!”

“Why are you afraid?  Are you sorry for our love?”

“No; but let it be like this.  Don’t let’s risk anything.”

“Risk?  Is it people—­society—­you’re afraid of?  I thought you wouldn’t care.”

Gyp smiled.

“Society?  No; I’m not afraid of that.”

“What, then?  Of me?”

“I don’t know.  Men soon get tired.  I’m a doubter, Bryan, I can’t help it.”

“As if anyone could get tired of you!  Are you afraid of yourself?”

Again Gyp smiled.

“Not of loving too little, I told you.”

“How can one love too much?”

She drew his head down to her.  But when that kiss was over, she only said again: