The second week passed: the time at Ladingford was over, and early in the morning they must start for the journey of thirty miles down to Oxford. The dapple-grey horse that would tow the barge was already arrived and now stood munching the long grass in the shade of the bridge: the swallows were high in the golden air of the afternoon: the long-purples on the banks of the young river seemed to await reproachfully the disturbance of their tranquillity. To-morrow came: the dapple-grey horse was harnessed to the rope: and then slowly, slowly the Naiad glided forward, leaving astern the grey bridge, the long-purples on the bank and the swallows high in the silver air of the morning. There was not yet any poignancy of parting; for the spire of Ladingford church remained so long in sight that scarcely did they notice the slow recession; and often, when they thought it was gone, the winding river would show it to them again; and in the end, when really it seemed to have vanished, by standing on the poop they could still make out where now it pierced thinly the huge sky. Moreover the contentment of that imperceptible evanescence and of their dreaming progress down the young Thames was plenary, lulling all regrets for a peace that seemed not yet truly to be lost. The hay in the meadows along the banks was mostly carried, and the cattle were magically fused with the July sunlight, curiously dematerialized like the creatures of a mirage. If a human voice was audible, it was audible deep in the green distance and belonged to the landscape as gently as the murmurous water scalloping the bows. Sometimes indeed they would pass late mowers who leaned upon their scythes and waved good fortune to the journey, but mostly it was all an emptiness of air and grass. "If only this young Thames flowed on for ever," said Guy. He and Pauline were leaning over the rail of the barge, and Guy felt a sudden impulse to snatch at the bank rich in that moment with yellow loosestrife, and by his action arrest for ever the progress of the barge, so that for ever they would stay like the lovers on a Grecian urn. "And really," Guy went on, as already the banks of yellow loosestrife were become banks of long-purples, "there is no reason why for us in a way this river should not flow on for ever. Dear, everything had seemed so perishable before I found you. Pauline, you don't think I ought to surrender my intention, do you? I mean, you don't think I ought to go away from Plashers Mead?" Guy went on to tell her about the decision he had taken on the day the visit to Ladingford was arranged. "But it would have been dreadful to miss this time," Pauline declared. "Oh, I felt it would be impossible," he agreed. "But even if our marriage is postponed for another year, you do think I ought to stick it out here, don't you? And really, you know, few lovers can have such wonderful hours as the hours we do have."