But presently her half-averted face began to haunt me as she had sat at the table, and her arm and the long droop of her shoulder.
§3
The next day I did an unexampled thing. I sent a telegram to my uncle, "Bad temper not coming to business," and set off for Highgate and Ewart. He was actually at work—on a bust of Millie, and seemed very glad for any interruption.
"Ewart, you old Fool," I said, "knock off and come for a day's gossip. I'm rotten. There's a sympathetic sort of lunacy about you. Let's go to Staines and paddle up to Windsor."
"Girl?" said Ewart, putting down a chisel.
"Yes."
That was all I told him of my affair.
"I've got no money," he remarked, to clear up any ambiguity in my invitation.
We got a jar of shandy-gaff, some food, and, on Ewart's suggestion, two Japanese sunshades in Staines; we demanded extra cushions at the boathouse and we spent an enormously soothing day in discourse and meditation, our boat moored in a shady place this side of Windsor. I seem to remember Ewart with a cushion forward, only his heels and sunshade and some black ends of hair showing, a voice and no more, against the shining, smoothly-streaming mirror of the trees and bushes.
"It's not worth it," was the burthen of the voice.
"You'd better get yourself a Millie, Ponderevo, and then you wouldn't feel so upset."
