“We shall never do any good in the country. What is the use of staying down here? I ought to go away.”
“But how can we?”
We? How awkward!
“I shall never do any writing down here. It’s no good, one can’t.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
“Does nothing ever happen in the country?”
“Well, I don’t know that you have much to complain of, poor darling.”
“What, you mean going blind like that? Yes, I had forgotten. Except for that, then, nothing has happened. Sometimes I see a pool shut in by trees with their branches reflected in the stagnant water. Nothing ever moves, the pool just lies there, day and night, and the trees look in. At long intervals there is a ripple; the pool lets it die. And then the trees look in the same as before.”
“Funny John.”
“I may be, but that is the country.”