On we went. In spite of my new-born excitement about Ellen, and my gathering fear of where it would land me, I could not help taking abundant interest in the condition of the river and its banks; all the more as she never seemed weary of the changing picture, but looked at every yard of flowery bank and gurgling eddy with the same kind of affectionate interest which I myself once had so fully, as I used to think, and perhaps had not altogether lost even in this strangely changed society with all its wonders. Ellen seemed delighted with my pleasure at this, that, or the other piece of carefulness in dealing with the river: the nursing of pretty corners; the ingenuity in dealing with difficulties of water-engineering, so that the most obviously useful works looked beautiful and natural also. All this, I say, pleased me hugely, and she was pleased at my pleasure – but rather puzzled too.

‘You seem astonished,’ she said, just after we had passed a mill which spanned all the stream save the waterway for traffic, but which was as beautiful in its way as a Gothic cathedral – ‘you seem astonished at this being so pleasant to look at.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘in a way I am; though I don't see why it should not be.’