Paul had promised to remain in England until Launa’s marriage; the indefinite prolongation was therefore borne by him with a placid demeanour. He also had been requested to give her away—there is a certain amount of excitement in giving “this woman to this man,” when longing to keep her oneself, a form of death on the battlefield. Paul liked it as well as a man can like anything he dreads and detests, and yet with the feeling that he would not like another man to do it.
The April day was lovely. Paul was at Victoria Mansions, ready to do what Launa wanted, hoping Mr. Wainbridge might not come.
“I want to go out,” she said; “to go far away, where I can paddle and see the catkins on the trees and listen to the sound of the river. I cannot stay at home and practise or do anything. I must go out.”
“ ‘Let me taste the old immortal indolence of life once more,’ ” he quoted.
“Come,” she said.
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
They drove to Paddington, and then went by train.
The river was looking lovely—ruffled and irregular—the trees wore a wind-swept fluffy look. The grass was fresh and green; it was spring, and all was new.
“This is glorious,” she said, as she paddled up the stream.