Ralph Henry Barbour,
The Island of Love
(1901)
“ When we reached the farther side of the island we leaned our arms on the fence and looked down almost on to the roof of Laurel House, nestling far below in a grove of squat oaks. From the out-kitchen a slender spiral of blue smoke rose, and I thought regretfully for a bare moment of Aunt Diana's beaten biscuits. Then I glanced at Doris and forgot aught else. What happier fate could mortal man desire than to be cast away on a desert island with Doris? ”
