When John saw that miserable figure, there began to take hold of him that old and fatal softness of heart; he felt very pitiful, and he said gently, "Get in, Stephen." And Stephen crawled over into the other boat, the water streaming from him; and they sat together on the wide seat in front of the engine as they had sat so often before. Then John said, "What happened? We thought you--" Stephen growled, "So I did--but--but I funked it.... I was drunk." Then he burst out, "But, damn it, it's nothing to do with you.... Turn her round--I'm soaked." And then, at the sullen bitterness of his voice and his words, John Egerton remembered his rage, he remembered the black grievance and suspicion he had against this man. And though the impulse to pity and forbearance struggled still within him, he fought it down. He would be firm for once. The boats swung sideways in the wind, and drifted, rolling, round the bend. He put his hand behind him on the starting-handle of the engine, as he said: "We're not going back yet, Stephen. I want to ask you something. What have you--what have you been--been doing to Muriel? What have you said to her--about me, and about--?" "Oh, _hell_, John! I'm frozen, I can't sit jawing here. Start the boat and let me get home--or let _me_, damn you!" And he too seized the handle, gripping John's hand; and they sat there, crouching absurdly over the back of the seat, glowering at each other in the noisy wind. And John nearly gave way; he felt that he was being unreasonable, perhaps foolish--this was no place for talk. But he was very angry and resentful again, and he said he would be firm for once. And so do the tragedies of life have their birth. He shouted, "We're not going back till you've told me the truth--you've been telling lies to Muriel--you've made love to her. God knows what you've done--and you've got to tell me--_now_!" "_Will_ you let go of this handle, damn you? It's _my_ boat!"