As we passed through the quads, men were coming out of Hall from dinner. Some of them went thundering up wooden-stairs to their rooms, tearing off their gowns. Others strolled arm-in-arm joking and conversing, smoking cigarettes. At sight of Fiesole, they hauled up sharply. She was a man’s woman, and they were struck by her beauty. With one accord they turned unobstrusively and hurried their steps towards the lodge, to catch one more glimpse of her face as she passed out. She betrayed no sign that she was aware of the sensation she was creating. She advanced beside me with eyes modestly lowered, enhancing her allurement with a serene air of innocence. Out in the street her manner changed. “The men do that always,” she said, “and, do you know, I rather like them for it.” “What do they do?” “Stare after me.” “Don’t wonder Brookins was shocked by you, Fiesole. You’re a very shocking person. You say the most alarming things.” She laid her hand on my arm for a second. “But I say them charmingly. Don’t I?” On our way through the meadows to the barges, I asked her what she had been doing all these years. “For a time I tried the stage, but lately I’ve been traveling in Europe. I have no relations--nothing to keep me tethered. I roam from place to place with my maid, moving on and on again.” “Not married?” “I’m not the kind of woman who marries. Men like me, but when it comes to making me their wife, it’s ‘Oh no, thank you.’ They want a woman a little more stupid. Are you married?” “Hardly.” She shot me a penetrating glance. “Engaged?” “Not that I’m aware of.” We came to the Lazarus barge. I piled cushions in a punt for her. She lay with her back to the prow, so that she faced me. I took the pole and pushed off into midstream. We had the river to ourselves; its restful loneliness caused us to fall silent. We left the barges quickly; then we drifted slowly. Fields were growing white and vaporous. The air was damp, and cool, and earthy. Behind us the spires of Oxford shone like a clump of spears against the embattled, orange-tinted sky. Before us, swimming in blue haze, was Iffley Mill. Everything was becoming ill-defined--receding into nothingness. Far away across meadows to the right we caught sounds of gritting hoofs and the grinding of a wagon. Sometimes a bird uttered one long fluty cry. Sometimes a swallow swooped near us. “Dante, all the others have passed on, and there’s only you and I. What’s happened to the Bantam?” “Married in Canada. He’s farming.” “I believe you thought you loved me in the old days.” “I could tell you some things to prove it.” “You didn’t do much to prove it at the time. You were a terribly shy and stubborn boy. You left me to do all the courting. I’ve often laughed at the things I did to try and make you kiss me.” “And that was what I was wanting most to do all the time. D’you know what sent me to the infirmary?”