For some minutes she kept the talk upon this and that, then with resolution he made it die away. They sat in a silence that soon grew speech indeed. Before them the golden river grew pale, the vast plain, here overflowed, there seamed with huge, shaggy forests, gathered shadow; above day at its latest breath shone out a silver planet. Désirée shivered. “It is mournful, it is mournful,” she said, “at Cape Jessamine.” “Is it so? Then let me breathe mournfulness until I die.” “The water is going down. Mingo says it is going down fast.” “Yes. I could find it in my heart to wish it might never go down.” “It will. I am not old, but I see how what—what has been pleasant, dwindles, lessens—The road to Vidalia lies over there.” “Yes. In the shadow, while the light stays here.” Silence fell again, save for a bird’s deep cry in some canebrake. Presently she rose and set her face toward the house. They hardly spoke, all the way back, beneath the cypresses. In a little while came night and candlelight. He found her in the dress of the evening before, by the jewelled flame, ruby and amber. They went into the next room, where there were tall candles upon the table, and ate of the delicate, frugal fare. There was some murmured dreamy talk. They soon rose and returned to the drawing-room. There was a chess-table, and she proposed a game, but they played languidly, moving the pieces slowly. Once their hands touched. She drew back; he lifted his eyes, then lowered them. It is probable that they did not know which won. Again at ten, she said good night. Standing within the door he watched her slowly mount the stair—a form all wrapped in gold, a haunting face. At the turn of the stair there came a pause. She half turned, some parting courtesy upon her lips. It died there, for his upward look caught hers. Her face changed to meet the change in his, her body bent as his strained toward her; so they stayed while the clock ticked a quarter-minute. She was the first to recover herself. She uttered a low sound, half cry, half singing note, straightened herself and fled. The next morning again solitude and the drift of leaves in the garden walks. He did not see her until the middle of the day, and then she was somewhat stately in her courtesy, dreamy and brief of speech. “Would he excuse her at dinner? There was a woman ill at the quarter—” “I asked you to let me give you no trouble. Only the day is flying and to-morrow morning I must be gone.” “The water is not down yet!” “Yes, it is, or all but so. I have been to see. I must go, you know that—go at dawn.” “I will be in the garden at four.”