"I'm thinking," said Joan, her eyes round and grave with astonishment,
"how you seem always to have been here."

He laughed, his color high. His face, Joan thought, was much too young
and vivid for anybody's father. Their eyes met in new and difficult
readjustment and Kenny, his heart turbulent, turned back to the punt.

It was in his mind gallantly to scull the thing across. The
announcement brought Joan to the edge of the water in a panic.

"You'd scull us both into a rock!" she exclaimed. "The river is full
of them. I know the best way over."

"Professional jealousy!" retorted Kenny, his eyes droll and tender. "I
suppose you belong to the ferryman's union." He dropped his knapsack
into the boat and busied himself with the painter. "If the boat had
two oars," he told her laughing, "or I one arm, I know I could manage.
As it is, one oar and two arms--"

"It's much better," said Joan sensibly, "than two oars and one arm.
Please get in."

She went to the stern and stood there, waiting, one hand upon the oar.
Fascinated, Kenny climbed in.

What a ferryman! he mused as Joan sculled the punt from shore. What a
gown and what a background! The old brocade, flapping in the wind, was
gold like the afterglow behind the gables and the soft, haunting
shadows in the girl's eyes and hair. What an ecstasy of unreality!