It does occur to him to wonder whether, if she has already called a cab, they ought not to wait and not waste the driver's time; and in the same moment, the thought is gone, lost to the soft touch of her hand and the light on the water. He cannot bring himself to hesitate, even for good reason; he follows her readily, and feels once again that he is almost enchanted, caught in the web of this sweet and intoxicating evening.

"I confess I have not spent enough time around them to be entirely sure," he answers, once her question has had a moment to sink through the poetry of the night, "but I do not think I am. I suppose we will find out, one way or the other." And he cannot bring himself, either, to mind the outcome. It seems to him that nothing so mundane as allergies can touch how he feels in this moment, or sully what is proving to be a better date than he could have imagined. The fact that he is going home with her at all, so soon and with so few qualms, feels almost like a proof that this is some dream, which cannot be touched by earthly practicalities.