“We might go,” said Peter, “and see if the New English Art Club is open on Sunday mornings.  And then we’ll go on the river.  Shall we?”

She assented again.  “Very well.”

A moment later she sighed, and said wearily, “How it does go on, day after day, doesn’t it!”

Peter said it did.

“On and on,” said Rhoda.  “Same stupid people saying the same stupid old things.  I do wonder they don’t get tired.  They don’t know anything, do they?”

Rhoda’s hankering was still after Great Minds.

“They’re funny sometimes,” suggested Peter tentatively; but she was blind to that.

“They don’t know a thing.  And they talk and talk, so stupidly.  About religion—­as if one religion was different from another.  And about dead people, as if they knew all about them and what they were doing.  They seem to make sure souls go on—­Miss Matthews and Miss Baker were both sure of that.  But how can they tell?  Some people that know lots more than them don’t think so, but say ... say it’s nothingness.”

Peter recognised Guy Vyvian’s word.  Rhoda would have said “nothing to follow.”

“People say,” he agreed, “quite different things, and none of them know anything about it, of course.  One needn’t worry, though.”

“You never worry,” she accused him, half fretfully.  “But,” she added, “you don’t preach, either.  You don’t say things are so when you can’t know....  Do you think anything about that, Peter—­about going on?  I don’t believe you do.”

Peter reflected.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t believe I do.  I can’t look beyond what I can see and touch; I don’t try.  I expect I’m a materialist.  The colours and shapes of things matter so awfully much; I can’t imagine anything of them going on when those are dead.  I rather wish I could.  Some people that know lots more than me do, and I think it’s splendid of them and for them.  They’re very likely right, too, you know.”

Rhoda shook her head. “I believe it’s nothingness.”

Peter felt it a dreary subject, and changed it.

“Well, let’s come and look at pictures.  And I can’t imagine nothingness, can you?  We might have lunch out somewhere, if you don’t mind.”

So they went out and looked at pictures, and went up the river in a steamer, and had lunch out somewhere, and Rhoda grew very gentle and more cheerful, and said, “I didn’t mean to be cross to you, Peter.  You’re ever so good to me,” and winked away tears, and the gentle Peter, who hated no one, wished that some catastrophe would wipe Guy Vyvian off the face of the earth and choke his memory with dust.  Whenever one thought Rhoda was getting rather better, the image of Vyvian, who knew such a lot more than most people, came up between her and the world she ought to have been enjoying, and she had a relapse.

Peter and Rhoda came home together, and Rhoda said, “Thank you ever so much for taking me.  I’ve liked it ever so,” and went up to her room to read poetry.  Rhoda read a good deal of the work of our lesser contemporary poets; Vyvian had instilled that taste into her.