The Point of It by E.M. Forster

"I don't see the point of it," said Micky, through much imbecile laughter.

Harold went on rowing. They had spent too long on the sand-dunes, and now the tide was running out of the estuary strongly. The sun was setting, the fields on the opposite bank shone bright, and the farmhouse where they were stopping glowed from its upper windows as though filled to the brim with fire.