you are, Gregg, and going without, yourself, and all because of me, anyway. Oh, Gregg, you'll not spoil this; we'll go up together and buy things together—let's buy the bread and the butter and the filling separately and make our own sandwiches out in the canoe and—you'll not spoil it, will you?"
"No," said Gregg, and let her go. "I'll not spoil it."
So they went up from the beach together to the brightness of Clarendon Avenue, which edges the sand there, and on the other side they found a shop and together, each playing fair with the other, they made their purchases. With them they returned to the shore, where they found, in the darkness, Sam Troufrie's boathouse, and Gregg carried out the canoe. "Imagine Billy using anything of Sam's," Marjorie thought, as she picked up cushions and paddle and followed to the water.
She took her place in the bow, facing him as he sent the canoe swiftly from shore with steady, almost splashless strokes of the paddle. When they were perhaps a hundred yards out, she said, "Shall we drift now?"
He gave a last vigorous stroke and put the paddle athwart and after the impetus was gone, they floated, hardly drifting, barely turning, there was so little breeze; and the stars twinkled in the dark water beside them. There was no moon that night, just a clear, starry sky as there had been on the night that they had walked along the water's edge north, up there where was Evanston and Northwestern University. Marjorie thought of that night and she was sure that Gregg must; but neither of them mentioned it yet. Neither spoke at all; they rested, listening to the land sounds coming over the water,—motor horns now and then,
