cliffs of Devon rising sheer
around it, and the tiny waves rippling softly through the drowsy
morning. It is not always thus: sometimes the vision shows them a
heaving grey sea hurling itself sullenly on a rock-bound coast; a grey
sky, and driving rain which stings their faces as they stand on the
cliffs above the little cove, looking out into the lands beyond the
water, where the strange roads go down. . . .

And then to some it may be the roar and bustle of Piccadilly that comes
back to haunt them in their exile--the theatre, the music and the
lights, the sound of women's skirts; or the rolling Downs of Sussex
with the white chalk quarries and great cockchafers booming past them
through the dusk.

To each and everyone there is one spot hallowed by special memory, and
that spot claims pride of place in day dreams. But when the mind
rambles on, and the lumber-room of the past is open--to all who have
tasted of its peaceful spell there comes the thought of The River.
Spell it with Capitals; there is only one. Whether it be Bourne End
with its broad reach and the sailing punts, or the wooded heights by
Clieveden; whether it be Boulter's Lock on Ascot Sunday, or the quiet
stretch near Goring--there is only one River. Henley, Wargrave,
Cookham--it matters not. . . . They all go to form The River. And
it's one of them, or some of them, or all of them that brings that
faint smile of reminiscence to the wanderer's face as he stirs the fire
with his boot.

It's so wonderful to drift--just once in a while. And those of the
River always drift when they worship at her shrine. Only people who
make money in tinned goods and things, and are in all respects
dreadful, go on the River in launches, which smell and offend people.
And they are not of the River. . . .

"If," said Joan lazily, "you had suggested paddling to Reading, or
punting several miles towards Henley, I should have burst into tears.
And yet there are some people who deliberately set out to go
somewhere. . . ."

"There are two things which precluded such an insane possibility," he
said. "The first is Binks; he likes to run about. And the second is
that unless I have a kiss within one second I shall blow up. . . ."

"Of course you've known Binks longer than me, so I suppose I mustn't
object to the order of precedence." She looked at him mockingly, then,
with a quick, fierce movement, she took his face between her hands.
And an intelligent and bewhisker