"And you went and did it? What a good influence I've been in your life, haven't I? Oh, dear! It's funny to think of you and me as kids on this very bit of water and here we are again now, old and worn and quite different people, and the water's just the same as ever."
"I'm not different."
"Yes, you are."
"What makes you say I'm different?"
"Oh, I don't know."
John stopped paddling. He wanted to get to the bottom of this.
"Why do you say I'm different?"
"Those white things through the trees there must be geese."
John was not interested in geese.
"I'm not different at all," he said, "I...." He broke off. He had been on the verge of saying that he had loved her then and that he loved her still—which, he perceived, would have spoiled everything. "I'm just the same," he concluded lamely.