But--snakes!" She shuddered, and then looked as though she were going to
cry with disappointment.

"Don't you mind just this once, Cellette," cried Lewis, blowing like a
walrus as he held his place against the current. "We'll come alone some
time."

Cellette dried the perspiration from her short upper lip with a little
cotton handkerchief.

"_Mon dieu_, but men are selfish!" she remarked.

Once they were in the boat again, drifting slowly down the shadowy
river, she forgot her pet, turned suddenly gay, and began to sing songs
that were as foreign to that still sunset scene as was Cellette herself
to a dairy. Lewis had heard them before. He looked upon them merely as
one of Cellette's moods, but they brought a twisted smile to Leighton's
lips. He glanced at the pompous, indignant setting sun and winked. The
sun did not wink back; he was surly.

In the train, Cellette, tired and happy, went to sleep. Her head fell on
Leighton's shoulder. With dexterous fingers he took off her hat and laid
it aside, then he looked at Lewis shrewdly. But Lewis showed no signs,
of jealousy. He merely laughed silently and whispered, "Isn't she a
_funny?_"

They began to talk. Leighton told Lewis he was glad that he had worked
steadily all these months, that Le Brux spoke well of his work, but
thought a rest would help it and him.