Gradually, as he rowed, the familiar landmarks grew smaller and the scene widened out, while the sprinkling of little cottages slid closer together. Beyond these, the spire of the church rose like a slender thread into the dark blue sky.
Brocklehurst’s eyes rested upon his face, but he appeared to be quite unconscious of this, his own dark grey eyes fixed on some point in the remote.
At length he drew in his oars.
How far away the land seemed! All around, sea—sea unspotted by a single sail—sea stretching from world to world.
He lay back in the bow of the boat, and for a time appeared to have fallen into one of those reveries his companion knew so well.
And Brocklehurst began to murmur to himself while he dabbled his hand in the water.
‘What?—What do you say?’ At the sound of his friend’s voice breaking through the fine meshes of his dream, Graham roused himself and made a movement to sit up.
Brocklehurst smiled. ‘Nothing—nothing. I was only talking to myself.’