But Clytie was young and vigorous, with fresh bright blood leaping in her veins. The thrill of the salt breeze and the whole-hearted laughter of her friends soon prevented these imaginings from becoming morbid, and gradually the first sharp impression dulled more or less down to the level of her other experiences of things. She gave herself up again to the freedom and gaiety of the trip, to the unfeigned delight of Kent, who had been beginning to wonder whether, for unknown reasons, some coolness had arisen between them. He forbore to allude to the subject until the night when they were all returning together from St. Malo to Southampton. He had found her a sheltered corner of the upper deck, rigged up a screen of rugs, comfortably established her in a canvas chair with many wraps. Most of the passengers had gone below. They were almost alone. The voices of two men in an opposite corner came vaguely out of the darkness. All was still save for the continuous rattle and wash, which at sea forms a strange kind of silence in itself. “Aren't you sorry it is over?” asked Clytie from the dimness of her wraps. “We did nothing very wonderful, but it has been very pleasant--a thing to look back upon.” “'A garnered joy for after-time.'” “You are waxing poetical.” “Oh, that's Wither. He was poetical in his youth. You would hardly think it of him. I have always thought that line rather pretty. Anyhow, it is true in the present case.” “And we haven't quarrelled,” said Clytie, “in spite of the maxim, 'If you want to lose a friend, travel with him.' But I don't think I could quarrel with you. You wrap yourself round with such imperturbable superiority.” “The metaphor is mixed, but proceed,” interrupted Kent. “Well, it's not worth while playing to such a bad house.” “I don't see what we should have to quarrel about,” returned Kent, laughing. “We each give the other credit for independent opinions; and as for action, if you wanted to go to the right and I to the left, I suppose I should give in and let you have your way--if it were not contrary to common sense.” “And if it were? If it were simply idiotic?” “Perhaps I should go with you then, to keep you out of harm's way.” “Thank you,” murmured Clytie rather touched, looking up restfully at the stars. There was a little silence. Kent puffed at his pipe. The glow attracted George Farquharson, who had just come up on the deck and was groping about for them in the darkness. “Going to stay here all night?” he asked. “Most of it,” replied Clytie. “Kent making you comfortable?” Clytie murmured an easeful affirmative, and Farquharson, nodding a good-night, disappeared into the darkness. “Apropos of quarrelling,” said Kent after a while. “Do you know, I thought once, for a few days, you were vexed with me for something--after we left Dinan. Were you?” Clytie felt the words like a touch of ice. Why had Kent blundered so tactlessly?