second cigar, and then
tapped Lewis on the shoulder. They slipped beyond the screen of the
low-limbed beech, stripped, and stole into the river.

At the first thoughtless splash Cellette sprang to her feet.

"Ah!" she cried, her eyes lighting, "you bathe, _hein_?" She started
undoing her bodice.

Leighton stared at her from the water. "What do you do?" he cried in
rapid French. "You cannot bathe. I won't allow it."

Cellette paused in sheer amazement that any one should think there was
anything she could not do. Then deliberately she continued undoing
hooks.

"Why can't I bathe?" she asked out of courtesy or merely because she
knew the value of keeping up a conversation.

"You can't bathe," said Leighton, desperately, "because you are too
tender, too delicate. These waters are--miasmic. They are full of
snakes, too. It was just now that I stepped on one."

"Snakes, eh?" said Cellette, pausing again. "I don't believe you.
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.

"What do you say," he went on, "to a little trip all by ourselves
again?"

"It would be splendid," said Lewis, eagerly. Then, after a pause: "It
would be fun if we could take Ce