The return boat was not crowded, though the boats that passed them, going
out, were packed to the rails. The sun was setting. Boys and girls sat on
the long benches with their arms about each other, singing. Eden felt a
strong wish to propitiate her companion, to be alone with him. She had
been curiously wrought up by her balloon trip; it was a lark, but not
very satisfying unless one came back to something after the flight. She
wanted to be admired and adored. Though Eden said nothing, and sat with
her arms limp on the rail in front of her, looking languidly at the
rising silhouette of the city and the bright path of the sun, Hedger felt
a strange drawing near to her. If he but brushed her white skirt with his
knee, there was an instant communication between them, such as there had
never been before. They did not talk at all, but when they went over the
gang-plank she took his arm and kept her shoulder close to his. He felt
as if they were enveloped in a highly charged atmosphere, an invisible
network of subtle, almost painful sensibility. They had somehow taken
hold of each other.

An hour later, they were dining in the back garden of a little French
hotel on Ninth Street, long since passed away. It was cool and leafy
there, and the mosquitoes were not very numerous. A party of South
Americans at another table were drinking champagne, and Eden murmured
that she thought she would like some, if it were not too expensive.
"Perhaps it will make me think I am in the balloon again. That was a very
nice feeling. You've forgiven me, haven't you?"

Hedger gave her a quick straight look from under his black eyebrows, and
something went over her that was like a chill, except that it was warm
and feathery. She drank most of the wine; her companion was indifferent
to it. He was talking more to her tonight than he had ever done before.
She asked him about a new picture she had seen in his room; a queer thing