Strether saw them together, and found occasion to make enquiries in his own fashion. "Who's the girl?" he growled.
Paul told him, gaily.
"Humph! Disgustin'. Better tell her there's no vicar's wife job going beggin'."
"You old ass," said Paul.
But he told her, all the same. After tea, the elders sat on in the dappled shade, and Paul dug out a punt and put the girl into it. They floated gently into "Paradise," and he pulled in under a spreading tree. "By Jove, it's hot," he said. "I think we'll lay up, if you don't mind."
"Of course. Come and sit down." She moved her skirt and shifted a cushion. She had no doubt whatever where he was to sit.
He threw himself down beside her. "May I smoke?" he asked. Claxted seemed impossibly far.
"Of course. I love it, you know. I don't see why you shouldn't."
He tapped his cigarette on his case. "No," he said vaguely. It was so trifling an incident, but it was one among many. Madeline at Cambridge was, somehow, a new Madeline. He was aware how much he liked the change, and he resolved to take Strether's advice.
"Do you know what I'm going to do next year?" he asked.