The pond was large, and had that perfect stillness and the dark lustre of very deep water. There were two small islands overgrown with bushes and a few trees, towards the middle. Birkin pushed himself off, and veered clumsily in the pond. Luckily the punt drifted so that he could catch hold of a willow bough, and pull it to the island.

‘Rather overgrown,’ he said, looking into the interior, ‘but very nice. I’ll come and fetch you. The boat leaks a little.’

In a moment he was with her again, and she stepped into the wet punt.

‘It’ll float us all right,’ he said, and manoeuvred again to the island.

They landed under a willow tree. She shrank from the little jungle of rank