That's it.... Six more, and then stop!" Jenny obeyed him--she desired
nothing else, and her doubtings were driven away in a breath. She went
quickly down. The back water lapped and wattled against the stone and
the boat, and she saw Keith stand up, drawing the dinghy against the
steps and offering her his hand. He had previously been holding up a
small lantern that gilded the brown mud with a feeble colour and made
the water look like oil. "Now!" he cried quickly. "Step!" The boat
rocked, and Jenny crouched down upon the narrow seat, aflame with
rapture, but terrified of the water. It was so near, so inescapably
near. The sense of its smooth softness, its yieldingness, and the danger
lurking beneath the flowing surface was acute. She tried more
desperately to sit exactly in the middle of the boat, so that she should
not overbalance it. She closed her eyes, sitting very still, and heard
the water saying plup-plup-plup all round her, and she was afraid. It
meant soft death: she could not forget that. Jenny could not swim. She
was stricken between terror and joy that overwhelmed her. Then:

"That's my boat," Keith said, pointing. "I say, you _are_ a sport to
come!" Jenny saw lights shining from the middle of the river, and could
imagine that a yacht lay there stubbornly resisting the current of the
flowing Thames.


iii

Crouching still, she watched Keith bend to his oars, driving the boat's
nose beyond the shadowy yacht because he knew that he must allow for the
current. Her eyes devoured him, and her heart sang. Plup-plup-plup-plup
said the water. The oars plashed gently. Jenny saw the blackness gliding
beside her, thick and swift. They might go down, down, down in that