"He shall do whatever he wishes. It mayn't be for long."
"How many Wanderjahre had he?"
"Two—three—I don't quite remember. But that may not mean more than a week or a fortnight really."
"And—he'll come back?"
"He'll come back, or we can go to him. Probably he won't be able to get very far. Anyway nothing on earth can stop it, so there's no more to be said."
I looked at her fixedly, earnestly. "But there is more to be said. What about yourself?" I said quietly.
For a moment her eyes left that man in the punt who fidgeted to feel the stick in his hand again, the pack on his back and the hard road under his feet. They smiled dimly into mine.
"Oh, I'm a painter. There'll be that portrait of yours to start presently, George."
And back went the eyes to the motionless figure in the punt.