‘I don’t know about being always a bachelor,’ said Edgar doubtfully. ‘That would imply that I hadn’t got over my disappointment.’ ‘That is what you said the other day. I am only quoting yourself against yourself. I like to think of you as a perpetual bachelor for Lina’s sake. It is a more poetical idea than the notion of your consoling yourself with somebody else.’ ‘Yet a man does generally console himself. It is in human nature.’ ‘Don’t say another word,’ cried Daphne. ‘You are positively hateful this morning—so low and material. I’m afraid it must be the consequence of eggs and bacon, such a vulgar unæsthetic breakfast—Bink’s idea. I shall give you bread and butter and strawberries to-morrow, if MacCloskie will let me have any strawberries.’ ‘If you were to talk a little less and row a little more, I think we should get on faster,’ suggested Edgar, smiling at her. They had got into a spot where a little green peninsula jutted out into the stream, and where the current was almost a whirlpool. The boat had been travelling in a circle for the last five minutes, while Daphne plied her sculls, unconscious of the fact. They were nearing Stratford; the low level meadows lay round them, the tall spire rose yonder, above the many-arched Gothic bridge built by good Sir Hugh Clopton before Shakespeare was born. William Shakespeare must have crossed it many and many a time, with the light foot of boyhood; a joyous spirit, finding ineffable delight in simplest things. And, again, after he had lived his life and had measured himself amidst the greatest minds of his age, in the greatest city of the world, and had toiled, and conquered independence and fame, and came back rich enough to buy the great house hard by the grammar-school, how often must he have lounged against the gray stone parapet, in the calm eventide, watching the light linger and fade upon the reedy river, bats and swallows skimming across the water, the grand old Gothic church embowered in trees, and the level meadows beyond! They were in the very heart of Shakespeare’s country. Yonder, far away to their right, lay the meadow-path by which he walked to Shottery. Memories of him were interwoven with every feature in the landscape. ‘My father told me I was not to go beyond our own meadows,’ said Daphne, ‘but of course he meant when I was alone. It is quite different when you are with me.’ ‘Naturally. I think I am capable of taking care of you.’ This kind of thing went on for another week of weather which at worst was showery. They breakfasted in the boat-house every morning, Daphne exercising all her ingenuity in the arrangement of the meal, and making rapid strides in the art of cookery.