too much restriction, it dawned on him that in England trouble might
arise from too much freedom. Always, by some cause, there would be
suffering. The gods would see to it. But not through loss of her--he
mutely implored them. Any way but that!

Everything hung on the walk home. Those two must have finished their
sparring match by now....

They had. Roy was on the bank, helping Arúna pack the basket; and
Cuthbert in possession of Tara--not for long.

He was called upon to punt back; and at the boat-house, where a taxi
removed the elders and the picnic impedimenta, he essayed a futile
manoeuvre to recapture Tara and saddle Dyán with the solid Emily.
Failing, he consoled himself by keeping in touch with Arúna and Roy.

Dyán patently delayed starting, patently lagged behind. Unskilled and
desperately in earnest, he could not lead up to his moment. He was
laboriously framing the essential words when Tara scattered them with a
light remark, rallying him on his snail's pace.

"You _would_ go for that stroll; and you strolled so violently----!"

"Because my heart in me was raging--aching, violently!" he blurted out
with such unexpected vehemence, that she started and stepped back a
pace.

"Of course I knew--there must be difficulties--so I have been waiting
and hoping ..." An idiotic catch in his throat brought a sudden hot
wave of self-consciousness. He flung out both hands. "Tara----!"