One afternoon, late in August, Catharine had gone with the dog down to the riverside, her favourite haunt. Clouds, massive, white, sharply outlined, betokening thunder, lay on the horizon in a long line; the fish were active; great chub rose, and every now and then a scurrying dimple on the pool showed that the jack and the perch were busy. It was a day full of heat, a day of exultation, for it proclaimed that the sun was alive; it was a day on which to forget winter with its doubts, its despairs, and its indistinguishable grey; it was a day on which to believe in immortality. Catharine was at that happy age when summer has power to warm the brain; it passed into her blood and created in her simple, uncontaminated bliss. She sat down close to an alder which overhung the bank. It was curious, but so it was, that her thoughts suddenly turned from the water and the thunderclouds and the blazing heat to Mr. Cardew, and it is still more strange that at that moment she saw him coming along the towing-path. In a minute he was at her side, but before he reached her she had risen. "Good morning, Miss Furze." "Mr. Cardew! What brings you here?" "I have been here several times; I often go out for the day; it is a favourite walk." He was silent, and did not move. He seemed prepossessed and anxious, taking no note of the beauty of the scene around him. "How is Mrs. Cardew?" "She is well, I believe." "You have not left home this morning, then?" "No; I was not at home last night." "I think I must be going." "I will walk a little way with you." "My way is over the bridge to the farmhouse, where I am staying." "I will go as far as you go." Catharine turned towards the bridge. "Is it the house beyond the meadows?" "Yes." It is curious how indifferent conversation often is just at the moment when the two who are talking may be trembling with passion. "You should have brought Mrs. Cardew with you," said Catharine, tearing to pieces a water lily, and letting the beautiful white petals fall bit by bit into the river.