tentatively; but she was blind
to that.

"They don't know a thing. And they talk and talk, so stupidly. About
religion--as if one religion was different from another. And about dead
people, as if they knew all about them and what they were doing. They
seem to make sure souls go on--Miss Matthews and Miss Baker were both
sure of that. But how can they tell? Some people that know lots more
than them don't think so, but say ... say it's nothingness."

Peter recognised Guy Vyvian's word. Rhoda would have said "nothing to
follow."

"People say," he agreed, "quite different things, and none of them know
anything about it, of course. One needn't worry, though."

"_You_ never worry," she accused him, half fretfully. "But," she added,
"you don't preach, either. You don't say things are so when you can't
know.... Do you _think_ anything about that, Peter--about going on? I
don't believe you do."

Peter reflected. "No," he said. "I don't believe I do. I can't look
beyond what I can see and touch; I don't try. I expect I'm a materialist.
The colours and shapes of things matter so awfully much; I can't imagine
anything of them going on when those are dead. I rather wish I could.
Some people that know lots more than me do, and I think it's splendid
of them and for them. They're very likely right, too, you know."

Rhoda shook her head. "_I_ believe it's nothingness."

Peter felt it a dreary subject, and changed it.

"Well, let's come and look at pictures. And I can't imagine nothingness,
can you? We might have lunch out somewhere, if you don't mind."

So they went out and looked at pictures, and went up the river in a
steamer, and had lunch out somewhere, and Rhoda grew very gentle and more
cheerful, and said, "I didn't mean to be cross to _you_, Peter. You're
ever so good to me," and winked away tears, and the gentle Peter, who
hated no one, wished that some catastrophe would wipe Guy Vyvian off the
face of the earth and choke his memory with dust. Whenever one thought
Rhoda was getting rather better, the image of Vyvian, who knew such a lot
more than most people, came up between her and the world she ought to
have been enjoying, and she had a relapse.

Peter and Rhoda came home together, and Rhoda said, "Thank you ever so
much for taking me. I've liked it ever so," and went up to her room to
read poetry. Rhoda read a good deal of the work of our lesser
contemporary poets; Vyvian had instilled that taste into her.

Peter