"Behold the moon!" she exclaimed, a good deal later, as they straggled out into the veranda after a short and boisterous game of cards. And, indeed, the moon was something to behold--huge, orange-coloured, almost terrifying, hanging heavy in the dusty night. Its lurid light filtered through the foliage of the trees and tinged the haze of the atmosphere with an unearthly radiance. "I ask you, who could go to bed whilst that great lantern blazes in the sky?" cried Mrs. Roy with mock grandiloquence. "Let us all drive down to the river and go for a row. Wouldn't it be simply perfect?" And, with others, Trixie agreed. What did it matter? Who cared? There was a sensuous influence in the hot, scented air that stilled her scruples, rendered her reckless. For the moment all the careless, irresponsible gaiety of her girlhood had returned. The young civilian and one of the subalterns took charge of Mrs. Roy, the other three climbed into Guy Greaves's dog-cart, and they all drove hatless, wrapless, along the deserted, dusty road hedged with dry mud-banks that were tipped with prickly pear and cactus, until the ground began to slope, the wheels of the vehicles sank deep into the heavy, sandy soil, and they were at the river's edge. There was a little delay while two boats were got ready by sleepy boatmen roused from their huts, a good deal of talk and laughter and argument as to how the party should divide and how far they should row. Finally it was agreed that in an hour's time they should land at the grove of trees that sheltered the Mohammedan cemetery, and that the syces with the traps, and a man to take back the boats, should meet them there. Trixie found herself afloat alone with Guy Greaves. She did not know if this was due to an accident or to Guy's deliberate manoeuvring. She felt as though she were in a dream as she took the rudder-lines. The second boat shot past them, and the occupants called out foolish jokes and gibes, sprinkled them with water, and left them far behind. They slid slowly, silently, over the smooth bosom of the holy river, that was burnished with the moonlight. From the distance came the sound of native singing, a faint sound that rose and fell on the warm night air, only to be drowned, as though in protest, by the yells of jackals hunting, closely packed, across the plain. Then all again was quiet, with a vast and dreamy peace that held the man and woman speechless, like a spell, as the boat slipped through the water, on and on. Suddenly Guy Greaves stopped rowing. He leaned towards his companion, his young face set and hard, his eyes dark in the moonlight; his hands, holding the oars, were strained and trembling. "Trixie!" he said in hoarse appeal. His voice roused her. She looked at him, surprised. "Why have you been so cruel to me lately? What have I done?" She felt irritated, helpless. "Don't, Guy. Don't be so silly. I don't know what you mean."