‘What might that be, I wonder?’

’Why, that to dwell there together for the rest of our lives would be supreme felicity.  You know the kind of man that would say that.’

‘Not personally, thank goodness!’

’A week—­a month, even—­with weather such as this.  Nay, with a storm for variety; clouds from the top of Scawfell falling thick about us; a fierce wind shrieking across the tarn; sheets and torrents and floods of rain beating upon our roof; and you and I by the peat-fire.  With a good supply of books, old and new, I can picture it for three months, for half a year!’

‘Be on your guard.  Remember “that kind of man".’

’I am in no danger.  There is a vast difference between six months and all one’s life.  When the half-year was over we would leave England.’

‘By the Orient Express?’

They laughed together, Rhoda colouring, for the words that had escaped her meant too much for mere jest.

’By the Orient Express.  We would have a house by the Bosphorus for the next half-year, and contrast our emotions with those we had known by Burmoor Tarn.  Think what a rich year of life that would make!  How much we should have learnt from nature and from each other!’

‘And how dreadfully tired of each other we should be!’

Barfoot looked keenly at her.  He could not with certainty read her countenance.

‘You mean that?’ he asked.

‘You know it is true.’

’Hush!  The day is to be perfect.  I won’t admit that we could ever tire of each other with reasonable variety of circumstance.  You to me are infinitely interesting, and I believe that I might become so to you.’

He did not allow himself to vary from this tone of fanciful speculation, suited to the idle hour.  Rhoda said very little; her remarks were generally a purposed interruption of Everard’s theme.  When the cigar was smoked Out they rose and set forward again.  This latter half of their walk proved the most interesting, for they were expectant of the view down upon Wastdale.  A bold summit came in sight, dark, desolate, which they judged to be Great Gabel; and when they had pressed on eagerly for another mile, the valley opened beneath them with such striking suddenness that they stopped on the instant and glanced at each other in silence.  From a noble height they looked down upon Wastwater, sternest and blackest of the lakes, on the fields and copses of the valley head with its winding stream, and the rugged gorges which lie beyond in mountain shadow.

The descent was by a path which in winter becomes the bed of a torrent, steep and stony, zigzagging through a thick wood.  Here, and when they had reached the level road leading into the village, their talk was in the same natural, light-hearted strain as before they rested.  So at the inn where they dined, and during their drive homewards—­by the dark lake with its woods and precipices, out into the country of green hills, and thence through Gosforth on the long road descending seaward.  Since their early departure scarcely a cloud had passed over the sun—­a perfect day.