At Oak Weir they put the boat through the lock, and under the giant trees they unpacked the luncheon-basket they had brought from the Midlothian--how far away and how incredibly out of the picture such a place now seemed!--and sat among the twisted tree roots, and ate and drank and were merry like children on a holiday. It was late when they reached the weir, and by the time the necessity of the return journey urged itself upon them the shadows were growing longer and blacker till they stretched almost across the great meadow. The shepherd had taken the sheep away, passing the two with a nod reserved, but not in its essence unfriendly. Edward had smoked a good many cigarettes, and they had talked a good deal. It was as he had said at their first meeting, they were like two travelers who, meeting, hasten to spread, each before the other, the relics and spoils of many a long and lonely journey. "I wish we could have stayed here," she said at last. "If we had only had the sense to fold our tents, like the Arabs, and bring them with us, I suppose we could have camped here." "It isn't only tents," he said; "it's all the elegancies of the toilette--brushes and combs and slippers. You must return to the _Caravansary_ that guards these treasures. The nine-fifty-five will do us. But we haven't much more than time. There's the boat to pay for and the basket to get to the station. Come, Princess, if we could stay here forever we would, but since we can't we won't stay another minute." Once in the boat, and in the lock, she leaned back, holding the edge of the lock with the boat-hook, and with the other hand detaining Charles. She looked back dreamily on the day which had been, and she did not pretend that it had not been, the happiest day in her life. To be with one who pleased--he certainly did please--and to whom one's every word and look was so obviously pleasing! It is idle to deny that she felt smoothed, stroked the right way, like a cat who is fortunate in its friends. And now all days were to be like this. The crowbar began its chinking--once, twice--then a jarring sound, and a low but quite distinct "Damn!" She started out of her dream. "I beg your pardon," he was saying, "but I've caught my finger, like a fool. I can't do anything. Can you come here?" "Of course." She stepped out of the boat. The water in the lock had hardly begun to subside. She took the painter and, holding it, went to him, Charles following with cheerful bounds. The sluice had slipped a little and its iron pin held his finger firmly clipped against the tarred wood below. She did not cry out nor tremble nor do any of the things a silly woman might have done. "Tell me what to do," was all she said. He told her how to hold the crowbar, how to raise the sluice so that the finger might be released. She did it all exactly and carefully. When the finger was released he wrapped his handkerchief around it. "Does it hurt?" she said. And he said, "Yes."