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“Some. They don’t trouble a man who keeps his eyes open.”

“A nice country you live in!” she said, disdainfully.

“It is one kind of country. There is good shooting.”

“Anything else?”

“Sunshine all the year round. I have a house covered with scented things and buried in orange-trees. It is very beautiful. A little lonely at times–one can’t have Fifth Avenue and pick one’s own grape-fruit from the veranda, too.”

A silence fell between them; through the late afternoon stillness they heard the splash! splash! of leaping mullet in the lagoon. Suddenly a crimson-throated humming-bird whirred past, hung vibrating before a flowering creeper, then darted away.

“Spring is drifting northward,” he said. “To-morrow will be Easter Day–Pasque Florida.”

She rose, saying, carelessly, “I was not thinking of to-morrow; I was thinking of to-day,” and, walking across the cleared circle, she picked up her paddle. He followed her, and she looked around gayly, swinging the paddle to her shoulder.

“You said you were thinking of to-day,” he stammered. “It–it is our anniversary.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I am astonished that you remembered…. I think that I ought to go. The Dione will be in before long–“

“We can hear her whistle when she steams in,” he said.

“Are you actually inviting me to stay?” she laughed, seating herself on the soap-box once more.

They became very grave as he sat down on the ground at her feet, and, a silence threatening, she hastily filled it with a description of the yacht and Major Brent’s guests. He listened, watching her intently. And after a while, having no more to say, she pretended to hear sounds resembling a distant yacht’s whistle.

“It’s the red-winged blackbirds in the reeds,” he said. “Now will you let me say something–about the past?”

“It has buried itself,” she said, under her breath.

“To-morrow is Easter,” he went on, slowly. “Can there be no resurrection for dead days as there is for Easter flowers? Winter is over; Pasque Florida will dawn on a world of blossoms. May I speak, Kathleen?”

“It is I who should speak,” she said. “I meant to. It is this: forgive me for all. I am sorry.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” he said. “I was a–a failure. I–I do not understand women.”

“Nor I men. They are not what I understand. I don’t mean the mob I’ve been bred to dance with–I understand them. But a real man–” she laughed, drearily–“I expected a god for a husband.”

“I am sorry,” he said; “I am horribly sorry. I have learned many things in four years. Kathleen, I–I don’t know what to do.”

“There is nothing to do, is there?”

“Your freedom–“

“I am free.”

“I am afraid you will need more freedom than you have, some day.”

She looked him full in the eyes. “Do you desire it?”

A faint sound fell upon the stillness of the forest; they listened; it came again from the distant sea.

“I think it is the yacht,” she said.

They rose together; he took her paddle, and they walked down the jungle path to the landing. Her canoe and his spare boat lay there, floating close together.

“It will be an hour before a boat from the yacht reaches the wrecked launch,” he said. “Will you wait in my boat?”

She bent her head and laid her hand in his, stepping lightly into the bow.

“Cast off and row me a little way,” she said, leaning back in the stern. “Isn’t this lagoon wonderful? See the color in water and sky. How green the forest is!–green as a young woodland in April. And the reeds are green and gold, and the west is all gold. Look at that great white bird–with wings like an angel’s! What is that heavenly odor from the forest? Oh,” she sighed, elbows on knees, “this is too delicious to be real!”

A moment later she began, irrelevantly: “Ethics! Ethics! who can teach them? One must know, and heed no teaching. All preconceived ideas may be wrong; I am quite sure I was wrong–sometimes.”