They went to the parapet above the river and stood there, leaning over it elbow to elbow and smoking cigarettes. Miss Grammont was moved to declare the Pulteney Bridge, with its noble arch, its effect of height over the swirling river, and the cluster of houses above, more beautiful than the Ponte Vecchio at Florence. Down below was a man in waders with a fishing-rod going to and fro along the foaming weir, and a couple of boys paddled a boat against the rush of the water lower down the stream.
“Dear England!” said Miss Grammont, surveying this gracious spectacle. “How full it is of homely and lovely and kindly things!”
“It is the home we come from.”
“You belong to it still.”
“No more than you do. I belong to a big overworking modern place called London which stretches its tentacles all over the world. I am as much a home-coming tourist as you are. Most of this western country I am seeing for the first time.”
She said nothing for a space. “I’ve not a word to say to-night,” she said. “I’m just full of a sort of animal satisfaction in being close to you.... And in being with you among lovely things.... Somewhere—— Before we part to-night——....”
“Yes?” he said to her pause, and his face came very near to hers.
