“I say, Pat, what about tea?”
Peter ran the long racing-punt skilfully to the slip-stage of Eynsham Weir; stood balanced on slanting pole.
She looked up from the cushions. “If you like, dear. Are you feeling tired?”
“A little,” he admitted.
The weir-man (there are few locks on the upper Thames) strolled down to help them out; took the luncheon-basket.
“Have to take those bags out before we run her over, I’m afraid, sir. She’ll be liable to break her back if we don’t.”
“Tie her up where she is for a bit. We’re not in any hurry.” Peter, coat over arm, followed his wife up the slipway.
“Nice,” he said, eyes on the river.
To her it was more than “nice.” Thames flowed down to them, circling willow-fringed through lush meadowlands, spanned in near distance by a humped bridge of mellow stone. At bridge-end, below toll-house, a farm nestled red among scant trees. Left of them, twin hillocks crested to blue of sky. At their feet, Thames plunged in gurgling gold to the weir-pool, foam-flecked under deep banks. Hitherside the stream, dyked pasturage glowed in the sun. . . .
And not thirty yards from the weir-pool—flies rolled-up, flap open—stood a tent: a perfectly good, apparently unoccupied tent!