"That _was_ a tasty egg," he said, hovered for a second and vanished. Annie was in the shop. "The missus has had a bit of a shock," he remarked. "Got some sort of fancy about a ghost. Can't make it out quite. So Long!" And he had gone. III Mr. Polly sat beside the fat woman at one of the little green tables at the back of the Potwell Inn, and struggled with the mystery of life. It was one of those evenings, serenely luminous, amply and atmospherically still, when the river bend was at its best. A swan floated against the dark green masses of the further bank, the stream flowed broad and shining to its destiny, with scarce a ripple--except where the reeds came out from the headland--the three poplars rose clear and harmonious against a sky of green and yellow. And it was as if it was all securely within a great warm friendly globe of crystal sky. It was as safe and enclosed and fearless as a child that has still to be born. It was an evening full of the quality of tranquil, unqualified assurance. Mr. Polly's mind was filled with the persuasion that indeed all things whatsoever must needs be satisfying and complete. It was incredible that life has ever done more than seemed to jar, that there could be any shadow in life save such velvet softnesses as made the setting for that silent swan, or any murmur but the ripple of the water as it swirled round the chained and gently swaying punt. And the mind of Mr. Polly, exalted and made tender by this atmosphere, sought gently, but sought, to draw together the varied memories that came drifting, half submerged, across the circle of his mind. He spoke in words that seemed like a bent and broken stick thrust suddenly into water, destroying the mirror of the shapes they sought. "Jim's not coming back again ever," he said. "He got drowned five years ago." "Where?" asked the fat woman, surprised. "Miles from here. In the Medway. Away in Kent." "Lor!" said the fat woman. "It's right enough," said Mr. Polly. "How d'you know?" "I went to my home." "Where?" "Don't matter. I went and found out. He'd been in the water some days. He'd got my clothes and they'd said it was me." "_They_?" "It don't matter. I'm not going back to them." The fat woman regarded him silently for some time. Her expression of scrutiny gave way to a quiet satisfaction. Then her brown eyes went to the river. "Poor Jim," she said. "'E 'adn't much Tact--ever." She added mildly: "I can't 'ardly say I'm sorry." "Nor me," said Mr. Polly, and got a step nearer the thought in him. "But it don't seem much good his having been alive, does it?" "'E wasn't much good," the fat woman admitted. "Ever." "I suppose there were things that were good to him," Mr. Polly speculated. "They weren't _our_ things." His hold slipped again. "I often wonder about life," he said weakly.