a little from the tumult of her
private thoughts, began to feel a little compassionate.

She knew now, in some kind of way, what was going on inside him. She
realized the nature of that which brought him out here, to pretend to
read a book. He wanted to be near her. And there was something of the
pathetic faithfulness of a dog about him--a dog that is beaten and
repulsed but never falters, or can falter, in devotion to his master.
She had begun to know what that unreasoning devotion meant.

"I know the compact of the elm-tree is not to talk or expect answers,"
said Willie quietly. "Don't let me disturb you."

Daisy looked up at him swiftly.

"But if I said that you do disturb me?" she said.

"Then I should go away," he said.

"Oh, Willie, you don't," she said.

"Right. Tell me when I do."

And then poor Daisy began to have a headache. It got worse, and before
long she rose.

"What a beastly day," she said.

"It is rather," said he. "But it's all right here."

"It isn't all right anywhere," said Daisy. "I shall go indoors. I've
got a headache."

"Wish I could take it," said he.

"Oh, don't be foolish. Thanks awfully; I know you mean it. But one can't
take other people's burdens, you know. We are all saddled separately,
and--and all we can do is to pretend we aren't saddled at all, and make
grimaces and pretend to enjoy ourselves. Do pretend--we all pretend."

"Oh, I've been pretending a long time," said he.

Daisy's headache gave her a stab that was quite unsettling.

"Men always think about themselves," she remarked. "Don't answer. It is
the elm-tree rule."

"I shall answer. Was your remark that men always think about themselves
meant to apply to me? I only want to know."

Daisy had some little sense of justice left.

"No," she said. "I don't think it was."

* * * * *

The motorists came back very late for lunch, just as the evening before
they had come back late for dinner.

* * * * *

Such was Daisy's morning; and she felt she had a perfect right to a
headache. And with her headache she lay in the window-seat of her
bedroom and watched the punt, with its crimson spots of cushions,
unwaveringly reflected in the surface of the Thames. Above the sky
grew darker with the approach of storm, and the light grew more
coppery with the rising of that curious cloud out of the south. But
still this dreadful clearness of air continued in sp