Silence fell upon them again. John was harassed by a growing consciousness that he was failing to prove himself worthy of this golden moment which the Fates had granted to him. Was this all he was capable of--stiff, halting words which sounded banal even to himself? A night like this deserved, he felt, something better. He saw himself for an instant as he must be appearing to a girl like Pat, a girl who had been everywhere and met all sorts of men--glib, dashing men; suave, ingratiating men; men of poise and _savoir faire_ who could carry themselves with a swagger. An aching humility swept over him. And yet she had come here to-night to see him. The thought a little restored his self-respect, and he was trying with desperate search in the unexplored recesses of his mind to discover some remark which would show his appreciation of that divine benevolence, when she spoke again. "Johnnie, let's go out on the moat." John's heart was singing like one of the morning stars. The suggestion was not one which he would have made himself, for it would not have occurred to him, but, now that it had been made, he saw how super-excellent it was. He tried to say so, but words would not come to him. "You don't seem very enthusiastic," said Pat. "I suppose you think I ought to be at home and in bed?" "No." "Perhaps you want to go to bed?" "No." "Well, come on then." They walked in silence down the yew-hedged path that led to the boathouse. The tranquil beauty of the night wrapped them about as in a garment. It was very dark here, and even the gleam of white that was Pat had become indistinct. "Johnnie?" "Yes?" He heard her utter a little exclamation. Something soft and scented stumbled against him, and for an instant he was holding her in his arms. The next moment he had very properly released her again, and he heard her laugh. "Sorry," said Pat. "I stumbled." John did not reply. He was incapable of speech. That swift moment of contact had had the effect of clarifying his mental turmoil. Luminously now he perceived what was causing his lack of eloquence. It was the surging, choking desire to kiss Pat, to reach out and snatch her up in his arms and hold her there. He stopped abruptly. "What's the matter?" "Nothing," said John. Prudence, the kill-joy, had whispered in his ear. He visualized Prudence as a thin, pale-faced female with down-drawn lips and mild, warning stare who murmured thinly, "Is it wise?" Before her whisper primitive emotions fled, abashed. The caveman in John fled back into the dim past whence he had come. Most certainly, felt the Twentieth-Century John, it would not be wise. Very clearly Pat had shown him, that night in London, that all that she could give him was friendship, and to gratify the urge of some distant ancestor who ought to have been ashamed of himself he had been proposing to shatter the delicate crystal of this friendship into fragments. He shivered at the narrowness of escape.