All day she had been as she was before the darkness and discontent of those last weeks had come upon her: he who knew her now so well could certainly have affirmed that she had recovered the serenity of a month ago.

It was so much, so tremendously much that she should do this, and if only she could remain as she had been all day, she would at any rate be happy, happier, perhaps, than she had consciously been in all the stifled years which had preceded this.
Nothing else at the moment seemed to matter except the preservation to her of such content, and how eagerly would he have given all the service that his young manhood had to offer, if by that he could keep her from going further into the bewildering darkness that he had been told awaited her.
There was some little trouble, though no more than the shadow of a passing cloud, when at last he said that they must be getting back to town, for the afternoon was beginning to wane.

She besought him for five minutes more of sitting here in the sunshine that was still warm, and when those minutes were over, she begged for yet another postponement.
But then the quiet imposition of his will suddenly conquered her, and she got up.
"My dear, you shall do what you like with me," she said, "for you have given me such a happy day.

Will you remember that, Michael?
It has been a nice day.

And might we, do you think, ask Miss Falbe to come to tea with us when we get back?
She can but say 'no,' and if she comes, I will be very good and not vex her." As she got back into the motor she stood up for a moment, her vague blue eyes scanning the sky, the trees, the stretch of sunlit park.
"Good-bye, lake, happy lake and moor-hens," she said.