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her quite plainly. Turning in the direction from which the sound came, I studied the darkness intently, and in a moment I could see the reflected stars heave drunkenly and drown in the broken surface. She was almost abreast of where I was.
    “Hello,” I said quietly. I took out a cigarette and lit it, knowing she would see the flame of the match. After the light went out I was totally blind for a moment and couldn’t tell whether she was going on by or not.
    Then, suddenly, I heard a splash right in front of me and there she was not ten feet beyond the boat, her head and shoulders out of the water as she stood up.
    “Hello,” I said again.
    “Mr. Marshall?” she asked. “You’re up late.”
    “Yes. I was hoping you might come by.
    “Why?” I couldn’t see her face at all, just the white blur of it under the bathing cap.
    “I just wanted to talk to you. Why don’t you come ashore and have a cup of coffee with me? I’ve got some made.”
    She didn’t answer for a moment. “Well,” she said hesitantly at last, “all right.”
    She waded ashore and we went up to the fare. I handed her a towel and she dried her arms and legs while I pushed the coffee bucket up against the embers. I threw a couple of small sticks on the fire, and when they caught and flared up the flames highlighted her face and the lines of her figure.
    “Don’t you want to take off the cap?” I asked. She shook her head. “It’s all right.” I was squatting down, poking at the fire, and I looked up at her. “Please do.”
    She stopped rubbing with the towel and looked at me with that odd stillness in her face. “Why?”
    “Because your hair is beautiful.” I could feel the silence tightening up around us again and knew I shouldn’t have said it. But hell, I thought, a girl isn’t that touchy unless she’s afraid. And it isn’t me she’s afraid of—it’s herself.
    “Beautiful!” she said bitterly.
    “It is.”
    She said nothing.
    I took the other towel and spread it on the bedroll. “Sit down here,” I said. “The coffee will be hot in a minute.”
    “But my suit will get your blankets wet.”
    “No. Not with the towel. Please do. It’s more comfortable.”
    She sat down with her legs doubled under her and I handed her a cigarette. The coffee began to sizzle around the sides of the bucket, making a comforting sound in the night. I poured two cups and handed her one. “Do you like cream and sugar in it? I have some canned milk.”
    “No. Black, please.”
    I sat down across from her, on the ground. “What’s your name besides Mrs. Shevlin?”
    “Doris.”
    “You know,” I said, “you shouldn’t swim in that swamp at night. It’s dangerous.”
    “It’s all right. I know all the water and it’s safe enough. I’m a good swimmer.”
    “Doesn’t your husband ever swim with you?”
    “No. He doesn’t care for it.”
    “I can’t understand his letting you do it,” I said, and again I was conscious of walking on ground where I didn’t belong. “I mean,” I went on hurriedly, “I realize it’s not my business, but doesn’t he worry about you?”
    “No—” she said, cutting it off as if she had started to say more and then had changed her mind.
    “Do you go to town very often?” I asked.
    “No. I’ve never been to town since we came up here.”
    “Not in a whole year?” I asked in amazement. “Doesn’t your husband take you at all?”
    “He doesn’t go either. He goes down to the store at the foot of the lake twice a week, and that’s all.”
    “What days does he go?” I asked, and after the words were out I knew why I had asked, and wondered if she did. She probably had noticed that I’d waited three whole days to go back after the pliers.
    She knew, all right. She looked at me with that intense stillness and made no reply. It occurred to me then that I knew anyway, for he had gone first on Tuesday and this was Friday.
    “No certain days,” she said, and then I knew she had realized