For he always kept such a keen attentiveness, concentrated and unyielding in himself.
Now he had let go, imperceptibly he was melting into oneness with the whole.
It was like pure, perfect sleep, his first great sleep of life.
He had been so insistent, so guarded, all his life.
But here was sleep, and peace, and perfect lapsing out.
'Shall I row to the landing-stage?' asked Gudrun wistfully.
'Anywhere,' he answered. 'Let it drift.'
'Tell me then, if we are running into anything,' she replied, in that very quiet, toneless voice of sheer intimacy.
'The lights will show,' he said.
So they drifted almost motionless, in silence.
He wanted silence, pure and whole.
But she was uneasy yet for some word, for some assurance.
'Nobody will miss you?' she asked, anxious for some communication.
'Miss me?' he echoed. 'No!
Why?'
'I wondered if anybody would be looking for you.'
'Why should they look for me?'
And then he remembered his manners. 'But perhaps you want to get back,' he said, in a changed voice.
'No, I don't want to get back,' she replied. 'No, I assure you.'
'You're quite sure it's all right for you?'
'Perfectly all right.'
And again they were still.
The launch twanged and hooted, somebody was singing.
Then as if the night smashed, suddenly there was a great shout, a confusion of shouting, warring on the water, then the horrid noise of paddles reversed and churned violently.
Gerald sat up, and Gudrun looked at him in fear.
'Somebody in the water,' he said, angrily, and desperately, looking keenly across the dusk. 'Can you row up?'
'Where, to the launch?' asked Gudrun, in nervous panic.
'Yes.'
'You'll tell me if I don't steer straight,' she said, in nervous apprehension.
'You keep pretty level,' he said, and the canoe hastened forward.
The shouting and the noise continued, sounding horrid through the dusk, over the surface of the water.
'Wasn't this BOUND to happen?' said Gudrun, with heavy hateful irony.
But he hardly heard, and she glanced over her shoulder to see her way.
The half-dark waters were sprinkled with lovely bubbles of swaying lights, the launch did not look far off.
She was rocking her lights in the early night.
Gudrun rowed as hard as she could.
But now that it was a serious matter, she seemed uncertain and clumsy in her stroke, it was difficult to paddle swiftly.
She glanced at his face.
He was looking fixedly into the darkness, very keen and alert and single in himself, instrumental.
Her heart sank, she seemed to die a death.
'Of course,' she said to herself, 'nobody will be drowned.
Of course they won't.
It would be too extravagant and sensational.'
But her heart was cold, because of his sharp impersonal face.
It was as if he belonged naturally to dread and catastrophe, as if he were himself again.
Then there came a child's voice, a girl's high, piercing shriek:
'Di—Di—Di—Di—Oh Di—Oh Di—Oh Di!'
The blood ran cold in Gudrun's veins.
'It's Diana, is it,' muttered Gerald. 'The young monkey, she'd have to be up to some of her tricks.'
And he glanced again at the paddle, the boat was not going quickly enough for him.