At the touch of Weyman's lips to her hair Josephine lay very still, and Philip wondered if she had felt that swift, stolen caress.

Almost he hoped that she had.

The silken tress where for an instant his lips had rested seemed to him now like some precious communion cup in whose sacredness he had pledged himself.

Yet had he believed that she was conscious of his act he would have begged her forgiveness.

He waited, breathing softly, putting greater sweep into his paddle to keep Jean well behind them.
Slowly the tremulous unrest of Josephine's shoulders ceased.