“Would you care for anythin’ but savin’ yourself?  Should I?  No, no,” she laughed, “not one scrap—­don’t tell me.  There’s only two creatures the ordinary woman cares about,” she continued, “her child and her dog; and I don’t believe it’s even two with men.  One reads a lot about love—­that’s why poetry’s so dull.  But what happens in real life, he?  It ain’t love!” she cried.

Terence murmured something unintelligible.  Mr. Flushing, however, had recovered his urbanity.  He was smoking a cigarette, and he now answered his wife.

“You must always remember, Alice,” he said, “that your upbringing was very unnatural—­unusual, I should say.  They had no mother,” he explained, dropping something of the formality of his tone; “and a father—­he was a very delightful man, I’ve no doubt, but he cared only for racehorses and Greek statues.  Tell them about the bath, Alice.”

“In the stable-yard,” said Mrs. Flushing.  “Covered with ice in winter.  We had to get in; if we didn’t, we were whipped.  The strong ones lived—­the others died.  What you call survival of the fittest—­a most excellent plan, I daresay, if you’ve thirteen children!”

“And all this going on in the heart of England, in the nineteenth century!” Mr. Flushing exclaimed, turning to Helen.

“I’d treat my children just the same if I had any,” said Mrs. Flushing.

Every word sounded quite distinctly in Terence’s ears; but what were they saying, and who were they talking to, and who were they, these fantastic people, detached somewhere high up in the air?  Now that they had drunk their tea, they rose and leant over the bow of the boat.  The sun was going down, and the water was dark and crimson.  The river had widened again, and they were passing a little island set like a dark wedge in the middle of the stream.  Two great white birds with red lights on them stood there on stilt-like legs, and the beach of the island was unmarked, save by the skeleton print of birds’ feet.  The branches of the trees on the bank looked more twisted and angular than ever, and the green of the leaves was lurid and splashed with gold.  Then Hirst began to talk, leaning over the bow.

“It makes one awfully queer, don’t you find?” he complained.  “These trees get on one’s nerves—­it’s all so crazy.  God’s undoubtedly mad.  What sane person could have conceived a wilderness like this, and peopled it with apes and alligators?  I should go mad if I lived here—­raving mad.”

Terence attempted to answer him, but Mrs. Ambrose replied instead.  She bade him look at the way things massed themselves—­look at the amazing colours, look at the shapes of the trees.  She seemed to be protecting Terence from the approach of the others.