Then if it
carries, I'll take you over to the island.'
'Do,' she cried, watching anxiously.
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 plants before her, evil-smelling figwort and hemlock. But he
explored into it.
'I shall mow this down,' he said, 'and then it will be romantic--like
Paul et Virginie.'
'Yes, one could have lovely Watteau picnics here,' cried Ursula with
enthusiasm.
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