It was mean to sit waiting for life to throw up things that would distract one for a while from the sense of emptiness. Sitting moving about from place to place, in the dress of the period. Being nowhere, one had no right even to the dress of the period. In the bottom of the lake .... hidden, and forgotten. Round the far-off lake were feathery green trees, not minding. She sat imagining their trunks, filmed over with the murk of London winters, but all the more beautiful now, standing out black amongst the clouds of green. There were trees in the distance ahead, trees, forgotten. She was here to look at them. It was urgent, important. All this long time and she had never once looked. She lifted her eyes cautiously, without moving, to take in the wide belt beyond the stretch of grass. It was perfect. Full spring complete, prepared and set there, ungrudgingly, demanding nothing but love; embanked between the sky and the grass, a dense perfect shape of various pure colour, an effect, that would pass; but she had seen it. The sharp angle of its edge stood out against a farther, far-off belt of misty green, with here and there a dark maroon blot of copper beech. “Whatever happens, as long as one lives, there is the spring.” “Do not be too sure of this.” “Of course, if the world suddenly came to an end.” “This appreciation of spring is merely a question of youth.” “You can’t be sure.” “On the contrary. Do you imagine for instance that this old woman on the next seat feels the spring as you do?” Miriam rose unable to look; wishing she had come alone; or had not spoken. The green vistas moved all about her, dazzling under the height of sky. “I’m perfectly sure I shall always feel the spring; perhaps more and more.” She escaped into irrelevant speech, hurrying along so that he should hear incompletely until she had firm hold of some far-off topic; dreading the sound of his voice. The flower-beds were in sight, gleaming in the gaps between the tree trunks along the broad walk .... ragged children were shouting and chasing each other round the fountain. “I must always here think” he said as they passed through the wicket gate “of this man who preaches for the conversion of infidels, Jews, Christians, and other unbelievers.” She hurried on preparing to face the rows of Saturday afternoon people on the chairs and seats along the avenue, their suspicious English eyes on her scrappy, dowdy, out-of-date English self and her extraordinary looking foreigner. Her spirits lifted. But they must be walking quickly and talking. The staring self-revealing faces must see that it was a privilege to have converse with anyone so utterly strange and far away from their English life. “I’m not interested in him” she said as they got into their stride. “Why not?” “I don’t know why. I can’t fix my thoughts on him; or any of these people who yell at crowds.” Not quite that; but it made a sentence and fitted with their walk.