Mr. Polly sat beside the fat woman at one of the little green tables
at the back of the Potwell Inn, and struggled with the mystery of
life. It was one of those evenings, serenely luminous, amply and
atmospherically still, when the river bend was at its best. A swan
floated against the dark green masses of the further bank, the stream
flowed broad and shining to its destiny, with scarce a ripple--except
where the reeds came out from the headland--the three poplars rose
clear and harmonious against a sky of green and yellow. And it was as
if it was all securely within a great warm friendly globe of crystal
sky. It was as safe and enclosed and fearless as a child that has
still to be born. It was an evening full of the quality of tranquil,
unqualified assurance. Mr. Polly's mind was filled with the persuasion
that indeed all things whatsoever must needs be satisfying and
complete. It was incredible that life has ever done more than seemed
to jar, that there could be any shadow in life save such velvet
softnesses as made the setting for that silent swan, or any murmur but
the ripple of the water as it swirled round the chained and gently
swaying punt. And the mind of Mr. Polly, exalted and made tender by
this atmosphere, sought gently, but sought, to draw together the
varied memories that came drifting, half submerged, across the circle
of his mind.
He spoke in words that seemed like a bent and broken stick thrust
suddenly into water, destroying the mirror of the shapes they sought.
"Jim's not coming back again ever," he said. "He got drowned five
years ago."
"Where?" asked the fat woman, surprised.
"Miles from here. In the Medway. Away in Kent."
"Lor!" said the fat woman.
"It's right enough," said Mr. Polly.
"How d'you know?"
"I went to my home."
"Where?"
"Don't matter. I went and found out. He'd been in the water some days.
He'd got my clothes and they'd said it was me."
"_They_?"
"It don't matter. I'm not going back to them."
The fat woman regarded him silently for some time. Her expression of
scrutiny gave way to a quiet satisfaction. Then her brown eyes went to
the river.
"Poor Jim," she said. "'E 'adn't much Tact--ever."