She was annoyed with all that was said, and with the aimless movements of people’s bodies, because they seemed to interfere with her and to prevent her from speaking to Terence.  Very soon Helen saw her staring moodily at a coil of rope, and making no effort to listen.  Mr. Flushing and St. John were engaged in more or less continuous conversation about the future of the country from a political point of view, and the degree to which it had been explored; the others, with their legs stretched out, or chins poised on the hands, gazed in silence.

Mrs. Ambrose looked and listened obediently enough, but inwardly she was prey to an uneasy mood not readily to be ascribed to any one cause.  Looking on shore as Mr. Flushing bade her, she thought the country very beautiful, but also sultry and alarming.  She did not like to feel herself the victim of unclassified emotions, and certainly as the launch slipped on and on, in the hot morning sun, she felt herself unreasonably moved.  Whether the unfamiliarity of the forest was the cause of it, or something less definite, she could not determine.  Her mind left the scene and occupied itself with anxieties for Ridley, for her children, for far-off things, such as old age and poverty and death.  Hirst, too, was depressed.  He had been looking forward to this expedition as to a holiday, for, once away from the hotel, surely wonderful things would happen, instead of which nothing happened, and here they were as uncomfortable, as restrained, as self-conscious as ever.  That, of course, was what came of looking forward to anything; one was always disappointed.  He blamed Wilfrid Flushing, who was so well dressed and so formal; he blamed Hewet and Rachel.  Why didn’t they talk?  He looked at them sitting silent and self-absorbed, and the sight annoyed him.  He supposed that they were engaged, or about to become engaged, but instead of being in the least romantic or exciting, that was as dull as everything else; it annoyed him, too, to think that they were in love.  He drew close to Helen and began to tell her how uncomfortable his night had been, lying on the deck, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold, and the stars so bright that he couldn’t get to sleep.  He had lain awake all night thinking, and when it was light enough to see, he had written twenty lines of his poem on God, and the awful thing was that he’d practically proved the fact that God did not exist.  He did not see that he was teasing her, and he went on to wonder what would happen if God did exist—­“an old gentleman in a beard and a long blue dressing gown, extremely testy and disagreeable as he’s bound to be?  Can you suggest a rhyme?  God, rod, sod—­all used; any others?”

Although he spoke much as usual, Helen could have seen, had she looked, that he was also impatient and disturbed.  But she was not called upon to answer, for Mr. Flushing now exclaimed “There!” They looked at the hut on the bank, a desolate place with a large rent in the roof, and the ground round it yellow, scarred with fires and scattered with rusty open tins.