It was the
last act in the extravaganza, queer and painful, that had twisted
them all out of their real shapes for the confusion of a blind waif.
This adventure that Sylvie's impatience had planned would bring down
the curtain. After all, no matter what came of it, Pete was glad.
The color warmed his face; his blue eyes deepened; he smiled down
at Sylvie beside him. For this hour she seemed to belong to him
rightfully, naturally, by her own will. He let go of his inhibitions
and resigned himself to Fate.
When, on the far shore of the lake, the low walls of the
trading-station came in sight, a double image, reflected faithfully
with the strip of sand at its door, the low, level wall of pines
behind and the blue, still sky above, Pete caught the girl's hand
in his.
"Here we are, Sylvie," he said. "Keep quiet and follow my lead.
Remember, now, that I am supposed to be your husband and you my wife.
Can you play that part?"
She nodded, bending down her face so that he saw only the tip of her
small, sunburnt chin. She was hatless; the sun struck blue, bright
lines in her black hair.
"I'll be careful, Pete."
She pressed his hand, and he returned the pressure.
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