One day towards the end of August Shelton took Antonia on the river—the river that, like soft music, soothes the land; the river of the reeds and poplars, the silver swan-sails, sun and moon, woods, and the white slumbrous clouds; where cuckoos, and the wind, the pigeons, and the weirs are always singing; and in the flash of naked bodies, the play of waterlily leaves, queer goblin stumps, and the twilight faces of the twisted tree-roots, Pan lives once more. The reach which Shelton chose was innocent of launches, champagne bottles and loud laughter; it was uncivilised, and seldom troubled by these humanising influences. He paddled slowly, silent and absorbed, watching Antonia. An unaccustomed languor clung about her; her eyes had shadows, as though she had not slept; colour glowed softly in her cheeks, her frock seemed all alight with golden radiance. She made Shelton pull into the reeds, and plucked two rounded lilies sailing like ships against slow-moving water.
“Pull into the shade, please,” she said; “it's too hot out here.”
The brim of her linen hat kept the sun from her face, but her head was drooping like a flower's head at noon.
Shelton saw that the heat was really harming her, as too hot a day will dim the icy freshness of a northern plant. He dipped his sculls, the ripples started out and swam in grave diminuendo till they touched the banks.
He shot the boat into a cleft, and caught the branches of an overhanging tree. The skiff rested, balancing with mutinous vibration, like a living thing.
“I should hate to live in London,” said Antonia suddenly; “the slums must be so awful. What a pity, when there are places like this! But it's no good thinking.”
“No,” answered Shelton slowly! “I suppose it is no good.”
“There are some bad cottages at the lower end of Cross Eaton. I went them one day with Miss Truecote. The people won't help themselves. It's so discouraging to help people who won't help themselves.”
She was leaning her elbows on her knees, and, with her chin resting on her hands, gazed up at Shelton. All around them hung a tent of soft, thick leaves, and, below, the water was deep-dyed with green refraction. Willow boughs, swaying above the boat, caressed Antonia's arms and shoulders; her face and hair alone were free.
“So discouraging,” she said again.
A silence fell.... Antonia seemed thinking deeply.
“Doubts don't help you,” she said suddenly; “how can you get any good from doubts? The thing is to win victories.”
“Victories?” said Shelton. “I 'd rather understand than conquer!”
He had risen to his feet, and grasped stunted branch, canting the boat towards the bank.
“How can you let things slide like that, Dick? It's like Ferrand.”
“Have you such a bad opinion of him, then?” asked Shelton. He felt on the verge of some, discovery.
She buried her chin deeper in her hands.
“I liked him at first,” she said; “I thought that he was different. I thought he couldn't really be&mda............