one is perfectly happy; and that then it's—as good as any other."
She sighed out a blissful assent. "And I must say that Streffy has done things to a turn. Even the cigars—who do you suppose gave him those cigars?" She added thoughtfully: "You'll miss them when we have to go."
"Oh, I say, don't let's talk to-night about going. Aren't we outside of time and space . . . ? Smell that guinea-a-bottle stuff over there: what is it? Stephanotis?"
"Y-yes. . . . I suppose so. Or gardenias. . . . Oh, the fire-flies! Look . . . there, against that splash of moonlight on the water. Apples of silver in a net-work of gold. . . ." They leaned together, one flesh from shoulder to finger-tips, their eyes held by the snared glitter of the ripples.
"I could bear," Lansing remarked, "even a nightingale at this moment. . . ."
A faint gurgle shook the magnolias behind them, and a long liquid whisper answered it from the thicket of laurel above their heads.
"It's a little late in the year for them: they're ending just as we begin."
Susy laughed. "I hope when our turn comes we shall say good-bye to each other as sweetly."
It was in her husband's mind to answer: "They're not saying good-bye, but only settling down to family cares." But as this did not happen to be in his plan, or in Susy's, he merely echoed her laugh and pressed her closer.
