“Yes, you are!”

“You’re dear to believe it, Will—­Erik!”

“Will you play with me?  A lot?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you really like to curl in the leaves and watch the stars swing by overhead?”

“I think it’s rather better to be sitting here!” He twined his fingers with hers.  “And Erik, we must go back.”

“Why?”

“It’s somewhat late to outline all the history of social custom!”

“I know.  We must.  Are you glad we ran away though?”

“Yes.”  She was quiet, perfectly simple.  But she rose.

He circled her waist with a brusque arm.  She did not resist.  She did not care.  He was neither a peasant tailor, a potential artist, a social complication, nor a peril.  He was himself, and in him, in the personality flowing from him, she was unreasoningly content.  In his nearness she caught a new view of his head; the last light brought out the planes of his neck, his flat ruddied cheeks, the side of his nose, the depression of his temples.  Not as coy or uneasy lovers but as companions they walked to the boat, and he lifted her up on the prow.

She began to talk intently, as he rowed:  “Erik, you’ve got to work!  You ought to be a personage.  You’re robbed of your kingdom.  Fight for it!  Take one of these correspondence courses in drawing—­they mayn’t be any good in themselves, but they’ll make you try to draw and——­”

As they reached the picnic ground she perceived that it was dark, that they had been gone for a long time.

“What will they say?” she wondered.

The others greeted them with the inevitable storm of humor and slight vexation:  “Where the deuce do you think you’ve been?” “You’re a fine pair, you are!” Erik and Carol looked self-conscious; failed in their effort to be witty.  All the way home Carol was embarrassed.  Once Cy winked at her.  That Cy, the Peeping Tom of the garage-loft, should consider her a fellow-sinner——­She was furious and frightened and exultant by turns, and in all her moods certain that Kennicott would read her adventuring in her face.

She came into the house awkwardly defiant.

Her husband, half asleep under the lamp, greeted her, “Well, well, have nice time?”

She could not answer.  He looked at her.  But his look did not sharpen.  He began to wind his watch, yawning the old “Welllllll, guess it’s about time to turn in.”

That was all.  Yet she was not glad.  She was almost disappointed.

II

Mrs. Bogart called next day.  She had a hen-like, crumb-pecking, diligent appearance.  Her smile was too innocent.  The pecking started instantly: 

“Cy says you had lots of fun at the picnic yesterday.  Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh yes.  I raced Cy at swimming.  He beat me badly.  He’s so strong, isn’t he!”

“Poor boy, just crazy to get into the war, too, but——­This Erik Valborg was along, wa’n’t he?”