d vanished, and invisible water came gurgling
through the wheel-spokes. The horse had chosen the ford. "You can't own
people. At least a fellow can't. It may be different for a poet. (Let
the horse drink.) And I want to marry some one, and don't yet know who
she is, which a poet again will tell you is disgusting. Does it disgust
you? Being nothing much, surely I'd better go gently. For it's something
rather outside that makes one marry, if you follow me: not exactly
oneself. (Don't hurry the horse.) We want to marry, and yet--I can't
explain. I fancy I'll go wading: this is our stream."

Romantic love is greater than this. There are men and women--we know it
from history--who have been born into the world for each other, and for
no one else, who have accomplished the longest journey locked in each
other's arms. But romantic love is also the code of modern morals, and,
for this reason, popular. Eternal union, eternal ownership--these are
tempting baits for the average man. He swallows them, will not confess
his mistake, and--perhaps to cover it--cries "dirty cynic" at such a man
as Stephen.

Rickie watched the black earth unite to the black sky. But the sky
overhead grew clearer, and in it twinkled the Plough and the central
stars. He thought of his brother's future and of his own past, and of
how much truth might lie in that antithesis of Ansell's: "A man wants to
love mankind, a woman wants to love one man." At all events, he and his
wife had illustrated it, and perhaps the conflict, so tragic in their
own case, was elsewhere the salt of the world. Meanwhile Stephen called
from the water for matches: there was some trick with paper which Mr.
Failing had showed him, and which he would show Rickie now, instead of
talking nonsense. Bending down, he illuminated the dimpled surface of
the ford. "Quite a current." he said, and his face flickered out in the
darkness. "Yes, give me the loose paper, quick! Crumple it into a ball."

Rickie obeyed, though intent on the transfigured face. He believed
that a new spirit dwelt there, expelling the crudities of youth. He
saw steadier eyes, and the sign of manhood set like a bar of gold upon
steadier lips. Some faces are knit by beauty, or by intellect, or by a
great passion: had Stephen's waited for the touch of the years?

But they played as boys who continued the nonsense of the railway
carriage. The paper caught fire from the match, and spread into a
rose of flame. "Now gently w