OF DEPARTURE 303 



Nothing is rising in the Mill pool. 

 And to-morrow we go away. 



The end of our time here has approached with 

 frightful rapidity. For the last week I have been 

 going about a prey to settled gloom. Every 

 passing second has seemed to bring me a day 

 nearer to exile. I have not fished. I have 

 rested upon my three-and-a-half pounder. No 

 anti-climaxes for me. 



What am I doing with this rod and landing net, 

 by the Mill pool ? 



Oh, my dear sir, I am not a consistent person at 

 all, you know. Besides, I am not really fishing. 

 Only saying good-bye. And it is madness to come 

 near a river without a rod. 



Besides, look at the water. Look at it, I say. 

 What chance do you fancy I have of an anti- 

 climax ? I said there were to be none for me. 



To-morrow we go away. 



The thoughts of that very large fish has done a 

 little only a little to check the galloping of the 

 moments. 



It is matter for speculation at what moment in 

 a season of bliss the character of time's flight 



