"
He leaned over her again, struck a match with trembling fingers
and gave her the cigarette. She smiled at him very faintly.
"Please go back now," she begged. "Smoke yourself, take me home
slowly and say nothing."
He obeyed, but his knees were shaking when he stood up. Slowly,
a foot at a time, they passed from the mesh of the lilies out
into the broad stream. Almost as they did so, the yellow rim of
the moon came up over the low hills. As they turned into their
own stream, the light was strong enough for him to see her face.
She lay there like a ghost, her eyes half closed, the only touch
of colour in the shining strands of her beautiful hair. She
roused herself a little as they swung around. He paused, leaning
upon the pole.
"You are not angry?" he asked.
"No, I am not angry," she answered. "Why should I be? But I
cannot talk to you about it tonight."
They glided to the edge of the landing-stage. A servant appeared
and secured the punt.
"Is Sir Timothy back yet?" Margaret enquired.
"Not yet, madam."
She turned to Francis.
"Please go and have a whisky and soda in the smoking-room," she
said, pointing to the open French windows. "I am going to my
favourite seat. You will find me just across the bridge there."
He hesitated, filled with a passionate disinclination to leave
her side even for a moment.
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