"Yes, dear, I expect it is that," said Marie. They sat thus for some while in silence, for there was no more to be said, yet each--Maud for her own sake, Marie for Maud's and for her own as well--wished to halt, to rest for a little on the oars. Marie was lying back in the hammock, wrapped in it like a chrysalis; the other sat crouched and leaning forward by her side, her hands interlaced with the other's. The wind whispered gently, the stencilled shadows of leaves moved on the grass, and outside on the open was an ever-brightening space of moonshine, for the cool night air was dissolving the last webs of the heat haze. Then suddenly, without warning, came a voice from near at hand. "I have told you the truth," it said. "I did attempt the renewal. But she does not care for me. I come back to you, if you will take me." "I take you?" said a woman's voice. "Oh, Jack! Jack!" The words were quickly spoken, and on the moment two figures came round the lilac-bush and out into the full blaze of the moonlight. There they stopped, and the woman threw her arms round the man's neck and kissed him. The thing had happened so quickly that Marie could not have got out of the hammock or betrayed her presence before it was over. But she had just turned her head, half raising it, and saw. And Maud saw too. Next moment the others had passed behind an intervening bush, and once again there was silence but for the gentle whispering of the wind, and stillness but for the play of stencilled shadows on the grass. Marie still held Maud's hand; she still lay in the hammock, only her head was a little raised. A minute perhaps passed thus, and neither moved. Then Marie raised herself and sat on the side of the hammock. Her hand still held that of the other. "You saw?" she said quietly to Maud. "Yes, my mother!" Marie unclasped her hand. "Maud, dear, go indoors and go to bed," she said. "No, no!" whispered the girl. "What am I-- Oh--oh!" and a long sobbing sigh rose in her throat. Marie got up. "Come, then, we will go together," she said, in a voice which she heard to be perfectly calm and hard. "What are you going to do?" asked Maud. "If I knew I would tell you," said Marie. The lights were still brilliant on the lawn, and as they passed behind the screen of bushes Arthur Naseby's voice was still shrill. Marie found herself noticing and remembering details with the most accurate observation; it was here, at this bend in the path, that there would be a smell of syringa, and a little further on a dim scent of roses. Close to the house a cedar cast a curious pattern of shade; a square of bright light fell on the gravel path from the open drawing-room windows. It was no wonder she remembered, for a very short time had passed since she had been here. But everything not trivial was changed.