"Well--marrying me would be an experiment," said Peter stoutly. "I vow
you'd never regret it, Helena!"

"But I can't vow that you wouldn't! Let me alone, Peter. I suppose some
time I shall quiet down. It doesn't matter if I break my own heart. But I
won't take the responsibility of anybody else's heart just yet."

"Well, of course, that means you're not in love with anybody. You'd soon
chuck all that nonsense if you were."

The young, despairing voice thrilled her. It was all
experience--life--drama--this floating over summer water--with a
beautiful youth, whose heart seemed to be fluttering in her very hands.
But she was only thrilled intellectually--as a spectator. Peter would
soon get over it. She would be very kind to him, and let him down easily.
They drifted silently a little. Then Peter said abruptly:

"Well, at least, Helena, you might promise me not to dance with Jim
Donald again!"

"Peter--my promises of that kind--are worth nothing! ... I think it's
getting late--we ought to be going home!" And she gave the rudder a turn
for the shore.

He unwillingly complied, and after rowing through the shadow of the
woods, they emerged on a moonlit slope of lawn, where was the usual
landing-place. Two persons who had been strolling along the edge of the
water approached them.