Even in the boating times of peace this stretch was rarely frequented, being too far both for the London crowd whose general limit was Goring, and for the Oxford town excursionist who seldom pushed below Wallingford. Also the _cognoscenti_ declared it an uninteresting bit of river, dull and flat, devoid of the unspeakable charm of Clevedon and Pangbourne, and therefore unworthy of especial consideration. Still, the River is the River. Talk to an Englishman of the River, and he will not think of the Severn or the Wye, or the historic highway between London Bridge and the sea, but of those few miles of England’s fairy-stream, the beloved haunts of beauty and gentleness and love and laughter, where all the cares of the world are soothed into dreamful ease and the vague passions and aspirations of youth are transformed into magical definition. To the Londoner, at any rate, it is as sacred as Westminster Abbey. So the stretches of loveliness pronounced dull by the superior, were never neglected, and even this remote section, on Sundays especially, had its sparse devotees. But now, in war-time, not a blade or oar or paddle, not a glistening punt-pole disturbed the sweet stillness of the waters. Only once, since they had left the boat-house, had a barge passed them; a barge gay as to its poop with yellow and red, a thin spiral of smoke from its cabin funnel proclaiming the cooking of the Sunday dinner, while the barge-folk lounged on deck, their eyes and attitudes suggestive of those who were already overfed on lotus, and one small, freckled sunwraith of a child flitted along the tow-path beside the mild old horse. But half an hour had passed since then. The very meadows no longer showed the once familiar pairs of Sunday lovers. Were it not for the pleasant cows, it would have been a scene of lovely desolation. “There,” said Godfrey, shipping the pole, and guiding the punt by the aid of the branches to a mooring. “Allow me to introduce you to Heaven.” She kissed her hand to the greenery and the dark water and laughed lightly. “How d’ye do, Heaven?” Godfrey turned from the rope which he had made fast and stumbled to the floor of the punt. She started up in alarm. “Your foot, dear!” He laughed. “It’s all right this time. Sometimes I forget it’s a fake.” He sat beside her on the cushions and pointed to a basket in front of them. “Shall we start on the nectar and ambrosia, or is it too early?” “Let us wait a bit and take in Heaven first. What on earth are you doing?” she asked, a moment afterwards, as he established himself elbows on knees and chin in hands, and stared close into her blue eyes. “I’m taking in all the Heaven that matters to me,” said Godfrey. “Do I matter so much?” “You do.” “Light me a cigarette,” said Lady Edna. He obeyed, handed her one alight and she put it between her lips. “I love doing that,” said he. “I’ve never done it for any other woman in my life.”