At a bend of the river near Putney he came suddenly on one of those
lovely little retreats which fringe its banks--a red-brick house, a
pretty flower-garden, a trim lawn, shaded by weeping-willows, kissing
the water's edge. On that lawn, under those weeping-willows, he
descried the graceful, pliant figure, the raven hair, the imperious
gestures that had made such havoc with his heart, and muttering the
dear name, never before coupled with a curse, he knew for the first
time, by the pain, how fondly he already loved this wild, heedless,
heartless girl, who had come to live in his mother's house. Swinging
steadily along in mid-stream, he must have been too far off, he
thought, for her to recognise his features; yet why should she have
taken refuge in the house with such haste, at an open window, through
which a pair of legs clad in trousers denoted the presence of some
male companion? For a moment he turned sick and faint, as he resigned
himself to the torturing truth. This Mr. Ryfe, then, had been as good
as his word, and she, his own proud, refined, beautiful idol, had
committed the enormity of accompanying that imperious admirer down
here. What could be the secret of such a man's influence over such a
girl? Whatever it was, she must be Dick's idol no longer. And he would
have loved her so dearly!--so dearly!

There were tears in the eyes of this jolly young waterman as he pulled
on. These things hurt, you see, while the heart is fresh and honest,
and has been hitherto untouched. Those should expect rubbers who play
at bowls; if people pull their own chestnuts out of the fire they
must compound for burnt fingers; and when you wager a living, loving,
trustful heart against an organ of wax, gutta-percha, or Aberdeen
granite, don't be surprised if you get the worst of the game all
through.