And when he had gone, no one here would do that; no one would row out in the frosty noons or the velvet dusks, no one would feed the seagulls in the morning, or steal out in the evening to watch the dabchicks diving round the Island. No one would be left who properly loved the river. They would sit in their drawing-rooms and shudder at the wind, and say: “That poor fellow Byrne⁠—he was mad about the river⁠—he was always pottering about on the river in a boat⁠—and then, you know, he drowned himself in the river⁠—just outside here.” Yes, he would do that. There would be something “dramatic” about that. Just outside here⁠—in the dark. He had decided now. Not poison, for he knew nothing about that; not shooting⁠—for he had no revolver. But the river.