It is the haunt of the river swell and his overdressed female companion.

It is the town of showy hotels, patronised chiefly by dudes and ballet girls.

It is the witch's kitchen from which go forth those demons of the river--steam-launches.

The _London Journal_ duke always has his "little place" at Maidenhead; and the heroine of the three-volume novel always dines there when she goes out on the spree with somebody else's husband.
[Picture: River scene] We went through Maidenhead quickly, and then eased up, and took leisurely that grand reach beyond Boulter's and Cookham locks.

Clieveden Woods still wore their dainty dress of spring, and rose up, from the water's edge, in one long harmony of blended shades of fairy green.