I remembered, that night, three things. The first happened when I went on a seaside holiday with the Scott family; family holidays were of course out of the question for me, and I was delighted when Mary invited me to go with them. We went to Devon, and we used to swim a lot, every day, all weathers; and Mrs. Scott would be frightened because I insisted on swimming out of my depth. I used to swim just straight out, as far as I dared go, and then back again. For no reason: just for the fright of it. And she said to me one day:

“You know, Emma, it’s very silly to go out of your depth just for the sake of it, you can swim just as well, you can have just as nice a time when you’re in shallower water. There’s no need to go out of your depth just to prove you can do it, you know. We can all see just as well if you swim along nicely parallel to the shore. A trapeze artist isn’t any the better because he hasn’t got a safety net, you know. It’s the skill that counts, whatever the risk. The risk has nothing to do with it. It’s just as much fun in your depth as out of it.” And I had said, “I know you’re right,” but I knew even at that time that it was not and never would be so; that I was no professional, that I could apprentice myself to no skill, that I was not one of the professional classes. The empty water, simply because it was empty water, was what I wanted: empty water, no matter how far down you reach, and no foothold.