Scarcely had she alighted from the car at the rendezvous he had mentioned, beside the now deserted boathouse where in the warm weather the members of the Hampton Rowing Club disported themselves, when she saw an automobile approaching—­and recognized it as the gay “roadster” Ditmar had exhibited to her that summer afternoon by the canal; and immediately Ditmar himself, bringing it to a stop and leaping from it, stood before her in the sunlight, radiating, as it seemed, more sunlight still.  With his clipped, blond moustache and his straw-coloured hair—­as yet but slightly grey at the temples—­he looked a veritable conquering berserker in his huge coat of golden fur.  Never had he appeared to better advantage.

“I was waiting for you,” he said, “I saw you in the car.”  Turning to the automobile, he stripped the tissue paper from a cluster of dark red roses with the priceless long stems of which Lise used to rave when she worked in the flower store.  And he held the flowers against her suit her new suit she had worn for this meeting.

“Oh,” she cried, taking a deep, intoxicating breath of their fragrance.  “You brought these—­for me?”

“From Boston—­my beauty!”

“But I can’t wear all of them!”

“Why not?” he demanded.  “Haven’t you a pin?”

She produced one, attaching them with a gesture that seemed habitual, though the thought of their value-revealing in some degree her own worth in his eyes-unnerved her.  She was warmly conscious of his gaze.  Then he turned, and opening a compartment at the back of the car drew from it a bright tweed motor coat warmly lined.

“Oh, no!” she protested, drawing back.  “I’ll—­I’ll be warm enough.”  But laughingly, triumphantly, he seized her and thrust her arms in the sleeves, his fingers pressing against her.  Overcome by shyness, she drew away from him.

“I made a pretty good guess at the size—­didn’t I, Janet?” he cried, delightedly surveying her.  “I couldn’t forget it!” His glance grew more concentrated, warmer, penetrating.

“You mustn’t look at me like that!” she pleaded with lowered eyes.

“Why not—­you’re mine—­aren’t you?  You’re mine, now.”

“I don’t know.  There are lots of things I want to talk about,” she replied, but her protest sounded feeble, unconvincing, even to herself.  He fairly lifted her into the automobile—­it was a caress, only tempered by the semi-publicity of the place.  He was giving her no time to think —­but she did not want to, think.  Starting the engine, he got in and leaned toward her.

“Not here!” she exclaimed.