‘Duck?’ she called tentatively.

They did not look up, paddling quite hard to stay in the same place in the water, turning a little in the current, and hearing presumably nothing but the rush of the water over the stones in the shallow rapids just above the pool where they loitered without apparent purpose, swinging on the current and paddling.

‘Duck! Come on, duck!’

But this time she had called too loudly. The drake flew first, splashing the water as he took off, and the female immediately followed. They flew down river a few yards then landed near the bank and began dabbling among the weed. Deciding that she would never be able to recognize the duck on her own, let alone catch it, Ellen crossed the fence by the stile and began to walk quickly along the river path, looking for Osbert.

She knew the path well, because she often walked here with John. The association made her think of him, though with more perplexity than usual. She was perplexed because something seemed to have changed him, and since the French maid Hortense was the only identifiable threat she could see on her horizon she ascribed the change to Hortense, quite unjustifiably. Her first reaction to John’s letter had been one of amazement, quickly followed by gratification. It was so romantic. She had been unable to resist telling Cicely about it while she was helping her to dress for riding, and Cicely had thought it tremendously romantic too. It was only after elevenses in the servants’ hall, when to her own surprise she had found herself thinking that John’s smile as he offered her a plate of biscuits was somehow rather sickly, that she began to feel sure about it. As the morning wore on she felt a slow disappointment developing: it was not right, the letter, the voice in it was not John’s. She had to admit that the voice was not Hortense’s either, unless Hortense had a secret voice for intimate occasions which was quite unlike her usual stage lady’s-maid tones. She could not think whose the voice was, but she knew it was not John’s, not just because of the vocabulary but because of the sentiments. She did not believe that John thought in that way about such things as Beauty and Truth, Love and Death. That was not to say that he did not think of them at all, only that he did not think of them like that.

Walking briskly along the path, keeping an eye on both river banks in case Osbert should have crossed to the other side, and with her skirt held firmly in both hands so that it should not brush against the damp grass or be caught in the occasional brambles, Ellen tried to make up her mind what it was that on consideration she found displeasing in the letter. She would have much preferred to go on thinking it wonderfully romantic, and was cross with herself for not being able to do so and cross with John for being the cause of her crossness.