Brandes sat down on the parapet of the bridge and held his straw hat on his fat knees.

“Then we’ll make it a family party,” he said, “your father and mother and you, shall we? And we’ll just go off for the day.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Will you go?”

“I—work in the mill.”

“Every day?”

“Yes.”

“How about Sunday?”

“We go to church.... I don’t know.... Perhaps we might go in the afternoon.”

“I’ll ask your father,” he said, watching the delicately flushed face with odd, almost sluggish persistency.

His grey-green eyes seemed hypnotised; he appeared unable to turn them elsewhere; and she, gradually 63 becoming conscious of his scrutiny, kept her own eyes averted.

63

“What were you looking at in the water?” he asked.

“I was looking for our boat. It isn’t there. I’m afraid it has gone over the dam.”

“I’ll help you search for it,” he said, “when I come back from the village. I’m going to walk over and find somebody who’ll cart that runabout to the railroad station.... You’re not going that way, are you?” he added, rising.

“No.”

“Then––” he lifted his hat high and put it on with care—“until a little later, Miss Carew.... And I want to apologise for speaking so familiarly to you yesterday. I’m sorry. It’s a way we get into in New York. Broadway isn’t good for a man’s 

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