They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path.  Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said:  “You’re not changed.”

He felt like answering:  “I was, till I saw you again;” but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park.

“This is horrible.  Why shouldn’t we go out a little on the bay?  There’s a breeze, and it will be cooler.  We might take the steamboat down to Point Arley.”  She glanced up at him hesitatingly and he went on:  “On a Monday morning there won’t be anybody on the boat.  My train doesn’t leave till evening:  I’m going back to New York.  Why shouldn’t we?” he insisted, looking down at her; and suddenly he broke out:  “Haven’t we done all we could?”

“Oh”—­she murmured again.  She stood up and reopened her sunshade, glancing about her as if to take counsel of the scene, and assure herself of the impossibility of remaining in it.  Then her eyes returned to his face.  “You mustn’t say things like that to me,” she said.

“I’ll say anything you like; or nothing.  I won’t open my mouth unless you tell me to.  What harm can it do to anybody?  All I want is to listen to you,” he stammered.

She drew out a little gold-faced watch on an enamelled chain.  “Oh, don’t calculate,” he broke out; “give me the day!  I want to get you away from that man.  At what time was he coming?”

Her colour rose again.  “At eleven.”

“Then you must come at once.”

“You needn’t be afraid—­if I don’t come.”

“Nor you either—­if you do.  I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you’ve been doing.  It’s a hundred years since we’ve met—­it may be another hundred before we meet again.”

She still wavered, her anxious eyes on his face.  “Why didn’t you come down to the beach to fetch me, the day I was at Granny’s?” she asked.

“Because you didn’t look round—­because you didn’t know I was there.  I swore I wouldn’t unless you looked round.”  He laughed as the childishness of the confession struck him.

“But I didn’t look round on purpose.”

“On purpose?”

“I knew you were there; when you drove in I recognised the ponies.  So I went down to the beach.”

“To get away from me as far as you could?”

She repeated in a low voice:  “To get away from you as far as I could.”

He laughed out again, this time in boyish satisfaction.  “Well, you see it’s no use.  I may as well tell you,” he added, “that the business I came here for was just to find you.  But, look here, we must start or we shall miss our boat.”

“Our boat?” She frowned perplexedly, and then smiled.  “Oh, but I must go back to the hotel first:  I must leave a note—­”

“As many notes as you please.  You can write here.”  He drew out a note-case and one of the new stylographic pens.  “I’ve even got an envelope—­you see how everything’s predestined!  There—­steady the thing on your knee, and I’ll get the pen going in a second.  They have to be humoured; wait—­” He banged the hand that held the pen against the back of the bench.  “It’s like jerking down the mercury in a thermometer:  just a trick.  Now try—­”