We occupied opposite ends of it, and hardly spoke. The commotion made by the swimmers was almost spent by the time it reached our end of the pond, and we moved almost imperceptibly under the oaks, with now a soft touch on the bank, then a little way out, and then the glide to the bank again. A sort of amicable hostility seemed to have settled between us. It seemed to be understood that she would do what she would do, and I should prevent it if I could. I could see the soles of her walking-shoes and her worsted-clad ankles as I lay, and I mused on the contrasts in her. She was ready to be off with him anywhere, anyhow; but the evening before she had been glad of a glass of hot milk and a fire to warm her hands at. She might, as she said, be a good walker, but she had drawn my sister's shawl closely enough about her shoulders to keep out the night air. She was a young forty, yet somehow hardly young enough to traipse houseless after him wherever his whim might lead him. She was not altogether irresponsible, and yet she contemplated "the least serious marriage there ever was." The punt rocked as she suddenly sat half up. "Are you asleep, George?" "No." "I nearly was. I can't imagine why you ever come to London when you've a place like this to bask in. How do you manage to get any work done?" "I can't say I am doing a great deal at present." "Now that's the first inhospitable thing you've said. Which is your study--the end room there?" She glanced up at the balcony. "Yes." "Don't you ever sleep out?" "No. My room's at the back, and it's two wide-open windows." "I love the ramblers up the pillars! May I have some to take back?" "_Mais naturellement._" "Ah, but you can't stay that like Derry, George----" "I can't do anything like Derry. On the whole I'm not sure that I want to." "You don't believe that sometimes one single hour may be worth all the rest of life put together?" "I suppose I'm the other kind of man." "Ah well!" She stretched herself luxuriously. "I used to think as you do. But I've learned a lot since then. An awful lot." "'Awful's' perhaps the word." "But lovely. Anyway who cares? What does it matter? What does anything matter? (Oh, look at his dive!) Nothing matters, George--nothing. I dare you to say it does." "It might be difficult to run the world on those lines." "Oh, I don't know. It's in a pretty ghastly muddle as it is. Do you know, I've made a discovery about that, George." "Really?" "It's this: That we make the mistake of regarding the world as full of rational people, with perhaps a few particularly stupid ones here and there. Now if you'll only regard it as full of perfect zenies, with just once in a while a reasonable being among them, that would explain everything." "You'd better go to sleep again, Julia."