But in all her long talks with Martin she hinted ever so lightly that she and he had not been thrown together from opposite poles without a reason.

She tried to touch his mind with the thought that it was to become what she said it might the night of the accident,--a romance, a perfectly private little affair of their own, stolen from their particular routine, which could be ended at a moment's notice.

She tried to wrap the episode up in a page of poetry which might have been torn from a little book by Francois Villon and give it a wistfulness and charm that she thought would appeal to him.

But it was not until one more than usually exquisite night, when the spirit of July lingered in the air and the warmth of the sun still lay among the stars, that she made her first step towards her goal.
Howard and Irene had wandered down to the water, and she was left with Martin sitting elfishly among the ferns on the bank below the cottage and above the silver lapping water.

Martin, very much alive to the magic spell of the night, with the young sap stirring in his veins, lay at her feet, and she put her hand caressingly on his head and began to talk in a half whisper.
"Boy, oh, boy," she said, "what shall I do without you when this dream comes to an end ?" "Dream again," said Martin.
"Down there in the city, so far away from trees ?" "Why not?
We can take our dreams with us wherever we go.