“I have no favourite walks at Blackwater Park, my love. One is the same as another to me. Let us go to the lake⁠—we may find it cooler in the open space than we find it here.”

We walked through the shadowy plantation in silence. The heaviness in the evening air oppressed us both, and when we reached the boathouse we were glad to sit down and rest inside.

A white fog hung low over the lake. The dense brown line of the trees on the opposite bank appeared above it, like a dwarf forest floating in the sky. The sandy ground, shelving downward from where we sat, was lost mysteriously in the outward layers of the fog. The silence was horrible. No rustling of the leaves⁠—no bird’s note in the wood⁠—no cry of waterfowl from the pools of the hidden lake. Even the croaking of the frogs had ceased tonight.

“It is very desolate and gloomy,” said Laura. “But we can be more alone here than anywhere else.”