For the moment, until he spoke, she forgot the actual presence of Mr.Arthur.The vague knowledge that some one was with her, stood for the indefinite, the unknown quantity whose existence was essential to the completion of the whole.
As they passed by the City Barge--that little old-fashioned inn which faces the water on the river path--she looked in through the windows.
There were bargemen, working men who lived near by, and others whose faces she had often seen as she had walked to her tram in the morning, all talking, laughing good-naturedly, some with the pewter pots pressed to their lips, head throwing slightly back, others enforcing a point with an empty mug on the bar counter.

And outside, ahead of them, the lean, gaunt willows, around whose very trunks the hard paving had been laid, shot up into the black sky like witches' brooms that the wind was combing out.
Bright, cheerful lights glowed in every cottage window.

In some it was only the light of a fire that leaped a ruddy dance on the whitewashed walls, and caught reflections in the lintels of the windows.

In others it was a candle, in others a small oil lamp; but in all, looking through the windows as she passed, Sally saw some old man or woman seated over a fire.

There is romance, even in content.
Sally was half conscious of it, until Mr.Arthur spoke; then it whipped out, vanished--a wisp of smoke that the air scatters.
"Let's lean over that railing and watch the boats," he suggested.
There were scarcely any boats moving, to be seen.