possessors and worshippers of grace and beauty here. There will
be glowing evenings, warm moonlight, distant voices singing....There is
your desire, doctor, the desire you say is the driving force of life.
But reality mocks it. Boats bump and lead to coarse ungracious
quarrels; rowing can be curiously fatiguing; punting involves dreadful
indignities. The romance here tarnishes very quickly. Romantic
encounters fail to occur; in our impatience we resort to--accosting.
Chilly mists arise from the water and the magic of distant singing
is provided, even excessively, by boatloads of cads--with collecting
dishes. When the weather keeps warm there presently arises an
extraordinary multitude of gnats, and when it does not there is a need
for stimulants. That is why the dreamers who come here first for a light
delicious brush with love, come down at last to the Thamesside barmaid
with her array of spirits and cordials as the quintessence of all
desire."

"I say," said the doctor. "You tear the place to pieces."

"The desires of the place," said Sir Richmond.

"I'm using the place as a symbol."

He held his sculls awash, rippling in the water.

"The real force of life, the rage of life, isn't here," he said. "It's
down underneath, sulking and smouldering. Every now and then it strains
and cracks the surface. This stretch of the Thames, this pleasure
stretch, has in fact a curiously quarrelsome atmosphere. People scold
and insult one another for the most trivial things, for passing too
close, for taking the wrong side, for tying up or floating loose. Most
of these notice boards on the bank show a thoroughly nasty spirit.
People on the banks jeer at anyone in the boats. You hear people
quarrelling in boats, in the hotels, as they walk along the towing path.
There is remarkably little happy laughter here. The RAGE, you see, is
hostile to this place, the RAGE breaks through.... The people who
drift from one pub to another, drinking, the people who fuddle in the
riverside hotels, are the last fugitives of pleasure, trying to forget
the rage...."

"Isn't it that there is some greater desire at the back of the human
mind?" the doctor suggested. "Which refuses to be content with pleasure
as an end?"

"What greater desire?" asked Sir Richmond, disconcertingly.

"Oh!..." The doctor cast about.

"There is no such greater desire," said Sir Richmond. "You cannot name
it. It is just blind drive. I admit its discontent with pleasure