When they woke next morning they had gone a considerable way up the river; on the right was a high yellow bank of sand tufted with trees, on the left a swamp quivering with long reeds and tall bamboos on the top of which, swaying slightly, perched vivid green and yellow birds.  The morning was hot and still.  After breakfast they drew chairs together and sat in an irregular semicircle in the bow.  An awning above their heads protected them from the heat of the sun, and the breeze which the boat made aired them softly.  Mrs. Flushing was already dotting and striping her canvas, her head jerking this way and that with the action of a bird nervously picking up grain; the others had books or pieces of paper or embroidery on their knees, at which they looked fitfully and again looked at the river ahead.  At one point Hewet read part of a poem aloud, but the number of moving things entirely vanquished his words.  He ceased to read, and no one spoke.  They moved on under the shelter of the trees.  There was now a covey of red birds feeding on one of the little islets to the left, or again a blue-green parrot flew shrieking from tree to tree.  As they moved on the country grew wilder and wilder.  The trees and the undergrowth seemed to be strangling each other near the ground in a multitudinous wrestle; while here and there a splendid tree towered high above the swarm, shaking its thin green umbrellas lightly in the upper air.  Hewet looked at his books again.  The morning was peaceful as the night had been, only it was very strange because he could see it was light, and he could see Rachel and hear her voice and be near to her.  He felt as if he were waiting, as if somehow he were stationary among things that passed over him and around him, voices, people’s bodies, birds, only Rachel too was waiting with him.  He looked at her sometimes as if she must know that they were waiting together, and being drawn on together, without being able to offer any resistance.  Again he read from his book: 

     Whoever you are holding me now in your hand,
     Without one thing all will be useless.

A bird gave a wild laugh, a monkey chuckled a malicious question, and, as fire fades in the hot sunshine, his words flickered and went out.

By degrees as the river narrowed, and the high sandbanks fell to level ground thickly grown with trees, the sounds of the forest could be heard.  It echoed like a hall.  There were sudden cries; and then long spaces of silence, such as there are in a cathedral when a boy’s voice has ceased and the echo of it still seems to haunt about the remote places of the roof.  Once Mr. Flushing rose and spoke to a sailor, and even announced that some time after luncheon the steamer would stop, and they could walk a little way through the forest.

“There are tracks all through the trees there,” he explained.  “We’re no distance from civilisation yet.”

He scrutinised his wife’s painting.  Too polite to praise it openly, he contented himself with cutting off one half of the picture with one hand, and giving a flourish in the air with the other.