"Well, perhaps it is strange, though I have a good deal to do at
home, what with looking after my father, and dealing with two or
three young men who have taken a special liking to me, and all of
whom I cannot please at once. But you, dear neighbour; it seems to
me stranger that you should know the upper river, than that I should
not know it; for, as I understand, you have only been in England a
few days. But perhaps you mean that you have read about it in books,
and seen pictures of it?--though that does not come to much, either."

"Truly," said I. "Besides, I have not read any books about the
Thames: it was one of the minor stupidities of our time that no one
thought fit to write a decent book about what may fairly be called
our only English river."

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I saw that I had made
another mistake; and I felt really annoyed with myself, as I did not
want to go into a long explanation just then, or begin another series
of Odyssean lies. Somehow, Ellen seemed to see this, and she took no
advantage of my slip; her piercing look changed into one of mere
frank kindness, and she said:

"Well, anyhow I am glad that I am travelling these waters with you,
since you know our river so well, and I know little of it past
Pangbourne, for you can tell me all I want to know about it." She
paused a minute, and then said: "Yet you must understand that the
part I do know, I know as thoroughly as you do. I should be sorry
for you to think that I am careless of a thing so beautiful and
interesting as the Thames."