He came to life and dug the paddle into the water. Of course she wasn't. Of course she hadn't. Of course she didn't. In that little episode on the path, he had behaved exactly as he should have behaved. If he behaved as he should not have behaved, if he had behaved as that old flint-axe and bearskin John of the Stone Age would have had him behave, he would have behaved unpardonably. The swift intake of the breath and the "Oh, why must you spoil everything like this?"—that was what would have been the result of listening to the advice of a bounder of an ancestor who might have been a social success in his day, but naturally didn't understand the niceties of modern civilization.
Nevertheless, he worked with unnecessary vigour at the paddle, calling down another rebuke from his passenger.
"Don't race along like that. Are you trying to hint that you want to get this over as quickly as you can and send me home to bed?"
"No," was all John could find to say.
"Well, I suppose I ought to be thinking of bed. I'll tell you what. We'll do the thing in style. The Return by Water. You can take me out into the Skirme and down as far as the bridge and drop me there. Or is that too big a programme? You're probably tired."
John had motored two hundred miles that day, but he had never felt less tired. His view was that he wished they could row on for ever.
"All right," he said.
"Push on, then," said Pat. "Only do go slowly. I want to enjoy this. I don't want to whizz by all the old landmarks. How far to Ghost Corner?"
"It's just ahead."
"Well, take it easy."