My visit to Boppard was drawing to an end before I had a clear opportunity to have things out with Rachel. It was in a little garden, under the very shadow of that gracious cathedral at Worms, the sort of little garden to which one is admitted by ringing a bell and tipping a custodian. I think Worms is in many respects one of the most beautiful cathedrals I have ever seen, so perfectly proportioned, so delicately faded, so aloof, so free from pride or presumption, and it rises over this green and flowery peace, a towering, lithe, light brown, sunlit, easy thing, as unconsciously and irrelevantly splendid as a tall ship in the evening glow under a press of canvas. We looked up at it for a time and then went on with the talk to which we had been coming slowly since the Fürstin had packed us off for it, while she went into the town with Berwick to buy toys for her gatekeeper's children. I had talked about myself, and the gradual replacement of my ambition to play a part in imperial politics by wider intentions. "You know," I asked abruptly, "why I left England?" She thought through the briefest of pauses. "No," she decided at last. "I made love," I said, "to Lady Mary Justin, and we were found out. We couldn't go away together----" "Why not?" she interjected. "It was impossible." For some moments neither of us spoke. "Something," she said, and then, "Some vague report," and left these fragments to be her reply. "We were old playmates; we were children together. We have--something--that draws us to each other. She--she made a mistake in marrying. We were both very young and the situation was difficult. And then afterwards we were thrown together.... But you see that has made a great difference to my life; it's turned me off the rails on which men of my sort usually run. I've had to look to these other things.... They've become more to me than to most people if only because of that...." "You mean these ideas of yours--learning as much as you can about the world, and then doing what you can to help other people to a better understanding." "Yes," I said. "And that--will fill your life." "It ought to." "I suppose it ought. I suppose--you find--it does." "Don't you think it ought to fill my life?" "I wondered if it did." "But why shouldn't it?" "It's so--so cold." My questioning silence made her attempt to explain. "One wants life more beautiful than that," she said. "One wants---- There are things one needs, things nearer one." We became aware of a jangling at the janitor's bell. Our opportunity for talk was slipping away. And we were both still undecided, both blunderingly nervous and insecure. We were hurried into clumsy phrases that afterwards we would have given much to recall. "But how could life be more beautiful," I said, "than when it serves big human ends?" Her brows were knit. She seemed to be listening for the sound of the unlocking gate. "But," she said, and plunged, "one wants to be loved. Surely one needs that."