'Turned round?' I suggested, for he had paused agitatedly. 'Any other woman would have turned round: she did not. She started perceptibly, dipped her paddle on the right side of the canoe, and shot diagonally towards the left. For a moment I saw her in profile.' 'Well, didn't she tip you a wink? I beg your pardon, Jeff, upon my word. I mean, did she not, at the moment of the profile, bend upon you a smile or a glance of encouragement?' 'What encouragement did I need? Besides, the time for encouragement had not yet come; I was still at the period of probation.' 'Her tacking, then, was a fresh trial of your constancy?' 'Not of my constancy--that was already confirmed--but of another quality, my self-respect. Respect, Campbell, is ever the basis of true love. This was a most critical juncture in our acquaintance. Had I slavishly followed her tack I should have lost more ground morally than I gained materially. No, I did not tack; I kept straight on, and, as she had paused again, I was soon beyond her. It was at that supreme moment that we found ourselves enveloped in the fog--alone together, between sea and heaven!' 'Jeff, this is becoming exciting.' 'I kept on. By-and-by, however, I stopped. I could now barely detect the outlines of her canoe through the pallid film of mist; but anon the outlines grew distincter--she was approaching! Right on she came with graceful strength, And paused within a paddle's length, A moment eye to eye they stayed, The poet and the pagan maid.' 'Jeff, this is poetry.' 'A verse I composed at the time. Do you like it?' 'Can you ask? But this suspense is wearing me out. Do, pray, come to the point.' 'What point, dear Campbell?' 'Hang it! the point of contact.' 'Sir, I fail to understand you,' said the majestic Jeff. 'Gammon! Who understands better than a poet the dramatic necessity of a point of contact? Here are your characters lost--I mean, here are your poet and your pagan maid lost in your fog, and staying eye to eye. Beyond reach of outside help, you are all in all to each other. "Bonjour, Countess." "Bonjour, Monsieur." "We appear to be lost." "I fear you are fatigued," she says. "The delight of conversing with the Countess Almara would suffice to restore me, were that the case." "Perhaps, if you were to rest your hand on the gunwale," she continues. "You overwhelm me," murmur you. "Nay, I would keep you from being overwhelmed," she smiles. "You are my guiding star!" you exclaim. "If I only knew whither to guide you. And mamma will be so anxious," she sighs. "Knows the Countess Semaroff that we are together?" you enquire. Just at this instant another of those horrid blue jelly-fish comes along, causing you to give another splash and sink. She screams, stretches out her hand to save you; you catch it, press it impulsively to your lips.... Well, there's your point of contact. Now go ahead.'