They sat down at the table with gusto and made short work of the refreshments. Fancy was a little disappointed that they couldn’t drop a line over the side of the boat and fry fish while they were fresh and wriggling, but she ate her share, nevertheless. She drank cup after cup of coffee and took a cigarette or two, sitting in blissful content, listening to the _cluck-cluck_ of water plashing lazily against the sides of the boat. While they were there still lingering at the table, the ferry-boat passed them. The ark careened on the swell of the wake, rising and falling, till the water was spilled from the glasses, and the dishes lurched this way and that. Fancy screamed with delight at the motion. For some minutes the hanging lamp above their heads swung slowly to and fro. All that sunny, breezy afternoon she sat happily, chattering on the front platform, watching the yachts that passed out into the lower bay, the heavily laden ferry-boat that rocked them deliciously in its heaving wake, and the rowboats full of Sunday excursionists, who hailed them with slangy banter. She watched the little red-tiled cottages at Belvedere. She watched the holiday couples walk the Tiburon beach, past the wreck of the _Tropic Bird_, now transformed into a summer home. She watched the mauve shadow deepen over Mount Tamalpais and the gray city of San Francisco looming to the south in a pearly haze. She was drenched by the salt air and burned by the sunshine; a permanent glow came to her cheeks, her brown eyes grew wistful. She talked incessantly. Cayley amused her all day with his jests and stories. That he was too subtle for her did not matter. She listened as attentively to his explanations of the set forms of Japanese verse as she did to his mechanical love-making. Cayley was not of the impetuous, hot-blooded type—he preferred the snare to the arrow—his was the wile of the serpent that charms the bird and makes it approach, falteringly, step by step, to fall into his power; but his system, if mathematically accurate, was also artistic. Fancy’s devotion to him was undisguised—he did not need his art. It was she who was spontaneous, frank and affectionate. He only added a few flourishes. "Do you love me, Blan?" she asked, warming to him as the sun went down. "Why, of course I do; haven’t I been apodictically adoring you?" She looked at him, bewildered. "I thought there was something queer about it; perhaps that’s it. But you haven’t called me ’dear’ once." "But I’ve called you ’Nepenthe’ and ’Chloe’." He looked down at her patronizingly. "’Darling’ is good enough for me—I guess I like the old-fashioned words best, dear," she whispered shyly. He quoted: "Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment hoodwinked," and laughed to himself at the appositeness of Cowper’s lines.