erhay had the keys of the
house, and they went in. To Gyp, it was like a child's "pretending"--to
imagine they were going to live there together, to sort out the rooms
and consecrate each. She would not spoil this perfect day by argument or
admission of the need for a decision. And when he asked:

"Well, darling, what do you think of it?" she only answered:

"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'