“If we are to explore the secret places of the heart,” Sir Richmond went on, “we shall have to give some attention to this Maidenhead side of life.  It is very material to my case.  I have,—­as I have said—­been here.  This place has beauty and charm; these piled-up woods behind which my Lords Astor and Desborough keep their state, this shining mirror of the water, brown and green and sky blue, this fringe of reeds and scented rushes and forget-me-not and lilies, and these perpetually posing white swans:  they make a picture.  A little artificial it is true; one feels the presence of a Conservancy Board, planting the rushes and industriously nicking the swans; but none the less delightful.  And this setting has appealed to a number of people as an invitation, as, in a way, a promise.  They come here, responsive to that promise of beauty and happiness.  They conceive of themselves here, rowing swiftly and gracefully, punting beautifully, brandishing boat-hooks with ease and charm.  They look to meet, under pleasant or romantic circumstances, other possessors and worshippers of grace and beauty here.  There will be glowing evenings, warm moonlight, distant voices singing....There is your desire, doctor, the desire you say is the driving force of life.  But reality mocks it.  Boats bump and lead to coarse ungracious quarrels; rowing can be curiously fatiguing; punting involves dreadful indignities.  The romance here tarnishes very quickly.  Romantic encounters fail to occur; in our impatience we resort to—­accosting.  Chilly mists arise from the water and the magic of distant singing is provided, even excessively, by boatloads of cads—­with collecting dishes.  When the weather keeps warm there presently arises an extraordinary multitude of gnats, and when it does not there is a need for stimulants.  That is why the dreamers who come here first for a light delicious brush with love, come down at last to the Thamesside barmaid with her array of spirits and cordials as the quintessence of all desire.”

“I say,” said the doctor.  “You tear the place to pieces.”

“The desires of the place,” said Sir Richmond.

“I’m using the place as a symbol.”

He held his sculls awash, rippling in the water.

“The real force of life, the rage of life, isn’t here,” he said.  “It’s down underneath, sulking and smouldering.  Every now and then it strains and cracks the surface.  This stretch of the Thames, this pleasure stretch, has in fact a curiously quarrelsome atmosphere.  People scold and insult one another for the most trivial things, for passing too close, for taking the wrong side, for tying up or floating loose.  Most of these notice boards on the bank show a thoroughly nasty spirit.  People on the banks jeer at anyone in the boats.  You hear people quarrelling in boats, in the hotels, as they walk along the towing path.  There is remarkably little happy laughter here.  The rage, you see, is hostile to this place, the rage breaks through....  The people who drift from one pub to another, drinking, the people who fuddle in the riverside hotels, are the last fugitives of pleasure, trying to forget the rage....”