'I'll unship the tiller that you may have nothing to do going back
but to hold your parasol,' he continued, and arose to perform the
operation, necessarily leaning closely against her, to guard against
the risk of capsizing the boat as he reached his hands astern. His
warm breath touched and crept round her face like a caress; but he
was apparently only concerned with his task. She looked guilty of
something when he seated himself. He read in her face what that
something was--she had experienced a pleasure from his touch. But
he flung a practical glance over his shoulder, seized the oars, and
they sped in a straight line towards the shore.

Cytherea saw that he noted in her face what had passed in her heart,
and that noting it, he continued as decided as before. She was
inwardly distressed. She had not meant him to translate her words
about returning home so literally at the first; she had not intended
him to learn her secret; but more than all she was not able to
endure the perception of his learning it and continuing unmoved.

There was nothing but misery to come now. They would step ashore;
he would say good-night, go to London to-morrow, and the miserable
She would lose him for ever. She did not quite suppose what was the
fact, that a parallel thought was simultaneously passing through his
mind.

They were now within ten yards, now within five; he was only now
waiting for a 'smooth' to bring the boat in. Sweet, sweet Love must
not be slain thus, was the fair maid's reasoning. She was equal to
the occasion--ladies are--and delivered the god--