She shook her head. "Don't worry him. There's no stopping it. He's bound to go. There, I didn't want to say it, but it's better to face it. He's fighting with the Wanderlust now. And if he goes it isn't the end. There are stages beyond that, and there's no stopping them either. He'll come back in the end." "Then you'll let him go?" "He shall do whatever he wishes. It mayn't be for long." "How many Wanderjahre had he?" "Two--three--I don't quite remember. But that may not mean more than a week or a fortnight really." "And--he'll come back?" "He'll come back, or we can go to him. Probably he won't be able to get very far. Anyway nothing on earth can stop it, so there's no more to be said." I looked at her fixedly, earnestly. "But there is more to be said. What about yourself?" I said quietly. For a moment her eyes left that man in the punt who fidgeted to feel the stick in his hand again, the pack on his back and the hard road under his feet. They smiled dimly into mine. "Oh, I'm a painter. There'll be that portrait of yours to start presently, George." And back went the eyes to the motionless figure in the punt. V Derry stayed to lunch without further pressing. He had made his book his excuse; that brushed aside, he had no choice but to stay or give his reason for not staying. So, as a man who is starting on a walking-tour of indefinite duration can hardly boggle at an hour or two sooner or later in the starting, and as, moreover, having brought Julia, he must in ordinary politeness take her back again, he stayed.