“Oh, I am glad,” she said, with relief. “And do let’s talk about something else. I daresay I was quite wrong about Jim moving that ball. Oh, I know I wasn’t,” she cried. “It was only a game, you see, and there was nothing on it, and oh, poor Jim, you see he always used to cheat. It was just the same at billiards; if the balls were touching he used to go on before he really looked to see if they were. And that leads on to the big things.”
He had stopped rowing, and with the impetus which the boat had acquired in those vigorous strokes he made to get clear of the weeds, they were drifting toward the little island in the centre of the lake, where the swans made their nests. It was rimmed about with soft-branched willows that trailed yielding boughs toward the water, and the boat glided in under their drooping fingers, and ran on to a soft sandy promontory, where it beached its bows, while the enfolding willow gave shade.
“Yes, the big things,” said Dora. “It’s just this, darling. You’ve got heaps of attractions, but I’m not sure that one of your nicest things isn’t that you are so safe. It is such fun being able to trust a person quite completely and entirely and know one was right in doing so. I don’t believe you ever scheme or make plans. Mother does, and Jim does, and people get so keen on their plan that other things get rather out of focus. They go—oh, it’s like hounds when they are really running well: they don’t look at the scenery, you know. They put their dear noses down and follow, follow. And it’s all because of money—no, not the hounds, don’t be so foolish—but it is an advantage not to want to bother about money. I do like to know that I needn’t bother any more at all, and that if I want to take a cab I can. Somebody—Pierre Loti, I think—said it must be exquisite to be poor. Well, it isn’t. It’s far more exquisite to be rich. Of course I had great fun about trimming a hat for twopence, and making it look as if it came from May’s shop—Biondonetti, isn’t it, but really I should much prefer to order hats direct. Wouldn’t you?”
Claude happened to be hatless, but he passed his hand over his head instead, as if to recapture the sensation of ordering hats. “I suppose I order mine,” he said. “I’m sure I never made one. I shouldn’t know how to set about it.”
“No, darling, you don’t wear two feathers—and—nothing else. A hat of two feathers is fearfully smart.”
“Are these the big things you proposed to talk about?” asked Claude.
“No, as if hats mattered. Oh, Claude, you’re moulting. A short black hair! And there’s another sticking out. May I pull?”
He bent his head a little down: she pulled, and he screamed. The hair remained where it was.
“And is that a big thing?” asked he again.
“No, donkey; darling donkey. You will interrupt so about hats. As if anybody cared where you got your hats, and you haven’t got one. How did you lead the conversation round to hats? Let’s see, it was Austell first, and then ... then, oh, yes, I said you were safe. And now I think I’ll go on. You may sit down here, if you like. There’s room for us both. Let’s be common, as May said about—about people like us, the other day. I would change hats with you, if you had one. As it is——”