“Of course I didn’t mean that, dearest; but soon after Easter—­so that we could sail at the end of April.  I know I could arrange it at the office.”

She smiled dreamily upon the possibility; but he perceived that to dream of it sufficed her.  It was like hearing him read aloud out of his poetry books the beautiful things that could not possibly happen in real life.

“Oh, do go on, Newland; I do love your descriptions.”

“But why should they be only descriptions?  Why shouldn’t we make them real?”

“We shall, dearest, of course; next year.”  Her voice lingered over it.

“Don’t you want them to be real sooner?  Can’t I persuade you to break away now?”

She bowed her head, vanishing from him under her conniving hat-brim.

“Why should we dream away another year?  Look at me, dear!  Don’t you understand how I want you for my wife?”

For a moment she remained motionless; then she raised on him eyes of such despairing dearness that he half-released her waist from his hold.  But suddenly her look changed and deepened inscrutably.  “I’m not sure if I do understand,” she said.  “Is it—­is it because you’re not certain of continuing to care for me?”

Archer sprang up from his seat.  “My God—­perhaps—­I don’t know,” he broke out angrily.

May Welland rose also; as they faced each other she seemed to grow in womanly stature and dignity.  Both were silent for a moment, as if dismayed by the unforeseen trend of their words:  then she said in a low voice:  “If that is it—­is there some one else?”

“Some one else—­between you and me?” He echoed her words slowly, as though they were only half-intelligible and he wanted time to repeat the question to himself.  She seemed to catch the uncertainty of his voice, for she went on in a deepening tone:  “Let us talk frankly, Newland.  Sometimes I’ve felt a difference in you; especially since our engagement has been announced.”

“Dear—­what madness!” he recovered himself to exclaim.

She met his protest with a faint smile.  “If it is, it won’t hurt us to talk about it.”  She paused, and added, lifting her head with one of her noble movements:  “Or even if it’s true:  why shouldn’t we speak of it?  You might so easily have made a mistake.”

He lowered his head, staring at the black leaf-pattern on the sunny path at their feet.  “Mistakes are always easy to make; but if I had made one of the kind you suggest, is it likely that I should be imploring you to hasten our marriage?”

She looked downward too, disturbing the pattern with the point of her sunshade while she struggled for expression.  “Yes,” she said at length.  “You might want—­ once for all—­to settle the question:  it’s one way.”

Her quiet lucidity startled him, but did not mislead him into thinking her insensible.  Under her hat-brim he saw the pallor of her profile, and a slight tremor of the nostril above her resolutely steadied lips.