And he, as he looked at the stars and the freckled gleam upon the waters and the hot white face of the girl at his side, thought also, “I did not mean it to go so far. But it is romance, this⁠—it is poetry, and rich experience⁠—so it is justified.” And what he meant was, “It is copy.”

The tide turned at last, and they drifted softly and luxuriously down to Hammerton Reach, and stole at midnight under the hushed gardens of The Chase to the Tarrants’ wall. And there again they kissed upon the steps. He whispered hotly, “Tomorrow!” and she whispered, “Yes⁠—if I can⁠—” and was gone.

In the morning there came a letter from Margery, beseeching him to come to her as soon as he could⁠—a pathetic, gentle little letter. She drew a picture of the peace and beauty of the place, and ended acutely by emphasizing its possibilities as an inspiration to poetry.