locked up and they crossed the road to the river bank where he now kept his launch when he was working in the office.
It seemed strange to her that it was the first time she had had a chance to get out on the river, with him. She noticed by the light of the lantern he lit for the bow that the interior of the boat was beautifully clean, and wondered if he took care of it himself. It was built like a grayhound and had a forward cabin large enough for two people to sleep in. There were cushions and an old rug on the floor by the stern seat. She sat down there with him and put an arm round his shoulder and sat still.
To her as to him a boat was some kind of sanctuary, a retreat from the world and all its stupidities, frets and fevers, and something about it calmed the excitement that had begun to pound her as they came out of the office. They sat silent while he drove very fast, looking keenly ahead for stray logs or the ends of sunken snags, for the spring rains were liable to bring down sinister things. But it was a clear night and shadows were visible for some distance in the middle of the stream. Presently he steered to the further bank and went more slowly. They made a little breeze which was pleasantly cool against their cheeks. They passed solemn clumps of trees standing black against the stars. They passed valleys belted with strands of cobwebby film. They passed lonely little wharves, merely a few planks negligently attached to wobbly piles, where hopeful settlers from remote gullies came to bring wool and potatoes and grain, and to get in return seeds and wire and kegs of nails. They passed the sheds and camps of timbermen, and the mangrove-sheltered mouths of creeks beckoning for exploration.
Dane told her tales of many of these things for he knew and loved them all. He kept on till the lights about
