all.”
“I see. Then, if you thought he was in love with you, things would be different?”
“If I thought Dr. Max Wilson was in love with me,” said Sidney solemnly, “I'd go out of my head with joy.”
One of the new qualities that K. Le Moyne was cultivating was of living each day for itself. Having no past and no future, each day was worth exactly what it brought. He was to look back to this day with mingled feelings: sheer gladness at being out in the open with Sidney; the memory of the shock with which he realized that she was, unknown to herself, already in the throes of a romantic attachment for Wilson; and, long, long after, when he had gone down to the depths with her and saved her by his steady hand, with something of mirth for the untoward happening that closed the day.
Sidney fell into the river.
They had released Reginald, released him with the tribute of a shamefaced tear on Sidney's part, and a handful of chestnuts from K. The little squirrel had squeaked his gladness, and, tail erect, had darted into the grass.
“Ungrateful little beast!” said Sidney, and dried her eyes. “Do you suppose he'll ever think of the nuts again, or find them?”
“He'll be all right,” K. replied. “The little beggar can take care of himself, if only—”
“If only what?”
“If only he isn't too friendly. He's apt to crawl into the pockets of any one who happens around.”
She was alarmed at that. To make up for his indiscretion, K. suggested a descent to the river. She accepted eagerly, and he helped her down. That was another memory that outlasted the day—her small warm hand in his; the time she slipped and he caught her; the pain in her eyes at one of his thoughtless remarks.
“I'm going to be pretty lonely,” he said, when she had paused in the descent and was taking a stone out of her low shoe. “Reginald gone, and you going! I shall hate to come home at night.” And then, seeing her wince: “I've been whining all day. For Heaven's sake, don't look like
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