“The moon!” he said. She did not stir, and his heart beat rather fast. So! She did not want the moon to rise any more than he! And slowly the creeping glimmer became light, and, between the tree-stems, stole, invading their bodies till they were visible. And still they sat, unstirring, as if afraid to break a spell. The moon gained power and a cold glory, and rose above the trees; the world was alive once more. Jon thought, ‘Could I kiss her?’ and at once recoiled. As if she would want! But, as though she divined his thought, she turned her head, and her eyes looked into his.

“I’m in charge of you!” he did not exactly say.

Her answer was a little sigh, and she got up. They stood, gazing into the whitened mysterious wood.

“Look!” said Jon; “It IS the mound. There’s the path down to the hollow where we had the picnic. Now we can find the way all right.”

She made a sound that he could not interpret, and they went towards the horses, untethered them, and mounted. They set forth, riding side by side.

“This’ll be something to remember,” said Jon.

“Yes, I shall always remember it.”

They said no more, except to consult about the way, but this was soon so clear, that they cantered till they came out on the polo ground close to the hotel.

“Go in and relieve your brother’s mind. I’ll take the horses round, and then come on.”

When he entered the hotel lounge Francis Wilmot, still in riding clothes, was alone. His expression was peculiar, not exactly hostile, but certainly not friendly.

“Anne’s gone up,” he said, “I reckon you haven’t much bump of locality. You surely had me scared.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Jon humbly, “I forgot the horses were new to the country.”

“Well!” said Francis Wilmot, and shrugged his shoulders. Jon looked at the young man steadily.

“You don’t think that I got bushed on purpose? Because you look as if you did.”

Again Francis Wilmot shrugged his shoulders.