Philip seated himself near the stern, facing Josephine, and Jean
gave the canoe a shove that sent it skimming like a swallow on the
smooth surface of the lake. For a moment Philip did not dip his
paddle. He looked at the girl who sat so near to him, her head
bent over in pretence of seeing that all was right, the sun
melting away into rich colours in the thick coils of her hair.
There filled him an overwhelming desire to reach over and touch
the shining braids, to feel the thrill of their warmth and
sweetness, and something of this desire was in his face when she
looked up at him, a look of gentle thankfulness disturbed a little
by anxiety in her eyes. He had not noticed fully how wonderfully
blue her eyes were until now, and soft and tender they were when
free of the excitement of fear and mental strain. They were more
than ever like the wild wood violets, flecked with those same
little brown spots which had made him think sometimes that the
flowers were full of laughter. There was something of wistfulness,
of thought for him in her eyes now, and in pure joy he laughed.

"Why do you laugh?" she asked.

"Because I am happy," he replied, and sent the canoe ahead with a
first deep stroke. "I have never been happier in my life. I did
not know that it was possible to feel as I do."

"And I am just beginning to feel my selfishness," she said. "You
have thought only of me. You are making a wonderful sacrifice for
me. You have nothing to gain, nothing to expect but the things
that make me shudder. And I have thought of myself alone,
selfishly, unreasonably. It is not fair, and yet this is the only
way that it can be."