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! All the time they were having their meal—the weir-man indicated a tiny arbour; boiled them hot water on the stove in his one-roomed cabin—thought of that tent obsessed their minds. To whom did that tent belong? Why shouldn’t they use that tent? River-inns were hot stuffy places, whereas a tent. . . . Peter, balancing his third cup of tea on white-flannelled leg, approached the subject diffidently. “I say, Pat,” he began, “have you ever thought of camping-out? Rather jolly—camping-out. That tent reminded me. . . .” “Oh, but we couldn’t possibly use _that_ tent”—Patricia started packing-up the tea-things—“it’s sure to belong to somebody.” “One might as well find out.” He rose from the rough bench of the tiny arbour; lounged away; came back in a few minutes, face a little flushed, eyes twinkling. “The weir-man says that we can use it if we like. ‘The gentleman isn’t coming down till tomorrow evening.’” “What gentleman?” asked Patricia. “The gentleman who owns the tent, I suppose. I say, Pat, do let’s! It’d be a fearful lark. We could go into the town and buy our rations. . . .” There and then, they settled the matter. The weir-man produced mattresses, blankets, a rug; unpacked the punt; directed them across the dyked pasturage towards Eynsham. And at Eynsham—which is the least interesting, ugliest village between Gravesend and Cricklade—they bought them eggs, and tinned foods, and a loaf of bread, and butter, and candles, and a huge basket of strawberries which Peter discovered hidden away in the dark of a greengrocer’s shop. Evening began as they dawdled back, parcel-laden, along the high road; turned off from high road across the dyked pasturage. Now, willows screened the ugly village behind. They could see only the bridge, and the two hillocks beyond, and their tent—their very own tent—marking the river-bank. . . . “It’ll be a frightful lark,” said Peter. “Won’t it?” she answered. Of the thing each had at heart, neither dared speech. . . . § 5