r pink lips
adorably as she spoke. Such mere simplicity would not in itself have
cast a spell over Maxwell, but it came to him as a new, surprising phase
of the eternal feminine in her; and it had the additional charm that it
caused that subjugated feeling resembling fear, with which Mildred could
inspire him, to disappear entirely. He was once more in the proper
dominant attitude of Man. He felt the courage now to make her do what he
believed she wished to do in her heart; the courage, too, to punish her
for the humiliation she had inflicted upon him. Six months ago he would
have had nothing but a hearty contempt for the man who could beat thirty
yards of gravel-path for half an hour, watch in hand, in a misery of
impatience, waiting on the good pleasure of a capricious woman.

Meantime he laughed good-humoredly at Milly's answer and began to talk
of neutral matters. If her tongue did not move as nimbly as usual, he
flattered himself it was because she knew that the hour of her surrender
was at hand.

Milly knew the boat-house well, the pleasant dimness of it on hot summer
days; how the varnished boats lay side by side all down its length, and
how the light canoes rested against the walls as it were on shelves.
How, when the big doors were opened on to the raft and the slowly
moving river without, bright circles of sunlight, reflected from the
running water, would fly in and dance on wall and roof. She stood there
in the dimness, while Maxwell lifted down a large canoe and, opening one
of the barred doors, took it out to the water. Mildred would have felt a
half-conscious aesthetic pleasure in watching his movements,
superficially indolent but instinct with strength. Milly had not the
same aesthetic sensibilities, and she was still disagreeably embarrassed
at finding herself on such a familiar footing with a man whom she had
never seen before. Then, although she followed Aunt Beatrice's golden
rule of never allowing a question of feminine dress to interfere with
masculine plans, she could not but feel anxious as to the fate of her
fresh muslin and ribbons packed into a canoe. Maxwell, however, had
learned canoeing years ago on the Canadian lakes, and did not splash.
His lean, muscular brown arms and supple wrists took the canoe rapidly
through the water, with little apparent effort.

It was the prime of June and the winding willow-shaded Cherwell was in
its beauty. White water-lilies were only just beginning to open