"I own it makes us seem pretty small--us,
not them." He nodded his head at a sailor who leant over the side
spitting into the river. "And that, I think, is what my wife feels, the
essential superiority of the peasant--" Under cover of Mr. Flushing's
words, which continued now gently reasoning with St. John and persuading
him, Terence drew Rachel to the side, pointing ostensibly to a great
gnarled tree-trunk which had fallen and lay half in the water. He
wished, at any rate, to be near her, but he found that he could say
nothing. They could hear Mr. Flushing flowing on, now about his wife,
now about art, now about the future of the country, little meaningless
words floating high in air. As it was becoming cold he began to pace
the deck with Hirst. Fragments of their talk came out distinctly as they
passed--art, emotion, truth, reality.
"Is it true, or is it a dream?" Rachel murmured, when they had passed.
"It's true, it's true," he replied.
But the breeze freshened, and there was a general desire for movement.
When the party rearranged themselves under cover of rugs and cloaks,
Terence and Rachel were at opposite ends of the circle, and could not
speak to each other. But as the dark descended, the words of the others
seemed to curl up and vanish as the ashes of burnt paper, and left them
sitting perfectly silent at the bottom of the world.
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