The Faun Man looked up from his writing. Peter had been with him on The Skylark for five days—five gorgeous days. He had found to his surprise that the golden woman was of the party. So far as outward appearances went, the picture-smashing incident might never have happened; Cherry conducted herself as a good comrade and the golden woman called her “dear.” They had to act as friends, since the Faun Man had taken rooms for them at the same hotel that they might chaperone each other. The men slept on board the house-boat.

It was nearly six. The last of the Finals had been rowed; the Regatta was ended. Far up the course one could still hear the distant cheering from the lawn where prizes were being distributed. The most sensational race of the afternoon had been the Diamond Sculls, in which Hardcastle had won by a bare half-length. Peter still tingled with the madness of the excitement, the splendid grit of the contested fight and the wildness of the applause. He had seen a slight young hero lifted out of his shell and carried shoulder-high; he wanted something like that to happen to himself so that Cherry might approve of him. He had just come from accompanying her back to The Red Lion; in an hour, when she had changed for dinner, he was going to fetch her. He had one more night before him—the gayest of them all, when the crews broke training, and then——. How often would he see her again? The gray old town would recover from its invasion, and settle back into routine and eventless quiet. Would something similar happen to his life? Nevertheless, he had one more night.

As he climbed aboard The Skylark and entered, the Faun Man looked up. “Peter, i’m tired of being respectable—I want to be vulgar.”

Peter threw himself into a creaking wicker-chair. “That’s not difficult; it’s chiefly a matter of clothes.”

“And accent,” the Faun Man added; “refined speech is the soap and water of good manners.”

Peter chuckled. “Then don’t tub.”

The Faun Man stood up and stretched himself. “I haven’t. I’ve written a love-lyric that never saw a nailbrush. It’s called The Belle of Shoreditch. When I’ve sung it to you I’ll tell you why I wrote it. Isn’t this a ripping tune?” He tinkled it over; then sat down crosslegged on the floor and commenced to drawl the words out:

“My bloke’s a moke

And ‘e cawn’t tell me why;

But the fust time ‘e spoke

‘Twas no more than a sigh.

Says I, ‘Don’t mind me; we’ll soon be dead.’

Says ‘e, ‘If yer dies, I’ll break me ‘ead.’

Says I, ‘Why not yer ‘eart instead,

Yer quaint old moke?’

“For yer cawn’t be ‘appy when yer ‘alf in love—!

Yer must taik one road or the other;

Yer can maike o’ life an up’ill shove,

Or marry a bloke wot ain’t yer brother.”

“Chorus, Peter. Pick it up.”

The Faun Man nodded the time, swaying from the hips and rolling his head.

“For yer cawn’t be ‘appy when yer ‘alf in love.”

He laid his mandolin aside. “Catchy, isn’t it? There mayn’t be much soap about the dialect, but there’s plenty of philosophy in the sense. More than one person in this party is half in love. Take example from me, Peter; don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Peter’s face went red. He didn’t think he’d been so obvious. To escape further pursuit, he turned the corner rapidly, “When are you going to start being vulgar?”

“Ah, yes!” The Faun Man came back. He struck a pose, his left hand resting on his hip, his right beating against his breast. “To-night,” he said. “To-night I lose my identity. I cease to be Lorenzo Arran and become Bill Willow, with his performing troupe of eccentric minstrels. I wear a red nose. My clothes might have been picked out of any ash-barrel.”

Peter interrupted. “From where do you get the eccentric minstrels?”

The Faun Man grabbed him by the shoulder, as though he feared he might dash away when the full glory of the project was divulged. “My boy, you’re one of them. You operate upon a bun-bag folded over a hair-comb. You wear—let me see? You wear a sheet, with holes cut in it for your eyes and mouth. Your nose may remain incognito; I’ve seen better. In a word, you play the ghost to my Hamlet.”

“And Harry and the girls?”

The Faun Man passed his hand over his forehead and reflected. “Let me see! Harry blacks his physiognomy; the mouth-organ disguises the rest of him—it always does. And as for the girls—they hang their hair before their faces and sing through it. Believe me, nothing alters a woman’s appearance so much as letting down her hair; that’s why all divorces occur after marriage. Now, with me it’s different; I look my best in bed. Of course I can’t ask anyone to see me there—that’s why I’m a bachelor.—But to get back to vulgarity; we start to-night in a punt. We’ll wait till it’s dusk, and we’ll have lanterns. We’ll collect money for the private insane asylums of Alaska. I’ll make a little speech explaining our philanthropy. Young feller, Bill Willow and his minstrels are going to make this Old Regatta rememberable for years to come.”

“You mean it?”

The Faun Man grinned; all the boy in him was up.

“Peter, don’t look so pop-eyed; of course I mean it—I mean it just as truly as Martin Luther did when he said, ‘Here I take my stand, because I’ve got nowhere to sit down.’ A profound utterance! I’m tired of watching all these people spooning under trees, wearing Leander ties, comparing their girls’ eyes to the stars and being afraid to touch each other. They’re too much of ladies and gentlemen; even we are. To-night I’m going to be a ruffian. Cut along and fetch the girls. I’ve got to write another song and it’s almost time for rehearsal.”

“A dress rehearsal?”

“In spots,” said the Faun Man.

When Peter broke the news to the golden woman she covered her face and laughed through her hands. She had a trick of treating Cherry and Peter like children, although she looked no more than twenty herself. She put her arms round their shoulders, drawing their faces close together, on either side of hers. She was so happy and beautiful it would have been difficult not to love her. “My Loo-ard!” she said, “I’d do a skirt-dance to-night if it wasn’t for the water under the punt. I’m all against getting wet, aren’t you, Cherry?”

Peter looked knowing. “The first thing she’d do if she knew she was going to drown, would be to take off her shoes and stockings.”

The golden woman pinched the girl’s cheek. “Hulloa! Secrets already!—But I don’t like Lorie’s idea for disguising us. Let’s see what we can do with five minutes’ shopping.”

When they rowed up to The Skylark they were met by a mysterious silence. Lifting out their parcels, they tiptoed into the cabin. Harry was bending over a table-cloth, with a tooth-brush in his hand and a bottle of blacking at his elbow. The Faun Man was melting the bottoms of candles and making them stick to the bottoms of empty jam-jars.

“What are you doing?”

They both looked up.

“I’m getting the illuminations ready,” said the Faun Man.

“And I’m making our flag,” said Harry, scrubbing hard at the table-cloth. “Blacking’s awful stuff; it’s so smudgy.” They crowded round him to inspect his handiwork and read:

BILL WILLOW’S

IMPROMPTU TROUPE OF ECCENTRIC MINSTRELS

NO FUN WITHOUT FOLLY ENVY THE POOR MAD

The Faun Man affixed his last candle. “Now, then, you crazy people, rehearsal’s in five minutes. Let’s fortify our tummies.”

Behind the house-boat the sun was setting; in patches, where water lay most still among rushes, the river shone blood-red. Sometimes, beneath the window, they heard the dip of oars and a boat drifted past. They were miles from reality, in a hushed and painted world. They had become little children for the moment, though the Faun Man had called it “being vulgar.” They had become immensely serious over a thing which didn’t matter. There were the words of the songs to learn, and then the tunes. After that there were the cretonnes to cut out and run together into burlesque night-gowns, extremely ample so as to cover their proper dresses. The golden woman had surprised a prim widow in Hart Street by asking for “The ugliest materials you have in your shop.” She had met with success; no materials could have been uglier. One had a straw-colored background, strewn with gigantic poppies; across another floated, in a kind of sky-blue gravy, the unbarbered heads of bodyless angels. The Faun Man and Peter, when their needles lost the thread, gave up sewing and fastened theirs together with paper pins. And all the while beneath the absurdity of it there was an atmosphere of tenderness, as if folly had brought them all nearer. The Faun Man kept watching the golden woman; and Cherry the Faun Man; and Peter, Cherry. As for Harry, he was the only one whose eyes were free to take in everybody.

When night had fallen they slipped on their masks and stepped into the punt. Harry took the pole and pushed off from The Skylark. The Faun Man sat next to the golden woman, humming snatches of song beneath his breath, to which he picked out an accompaniment on the mandolin. She lay back gazing up at him.

Above a wooded knoll the moon rose, setting the river a-silver. Trees knelt along the banks like cattle, stooping to drink. In the distance the bridge leapt the chasm of darkness and lights of the town sprang up. Like a fleet of dreams against green wharfs of fairyland, illumined houseboats shone fantastic. Chains of lamps, strung through boughs of gardens, gleamed like jewels on the throat of the dusk. The river sang incoherently, in a voice that was half asleep. Peter slipped his hand into Cherry’s; her hand seemed quite unconscious of what he was doing.

And now they drew near to the crowd of pleasure-craft, which jostled one another and beat the water like a run of salmon in shallows. Harry laid aside the pole and took to the paddle. They lit their candles and flew their heraldry. In their disguises no one would know them; with the restraint of their identities lifted from them they scarcely recognized themselves. The Faun Man gave the word; the punt was allowed to drift. They all struck up:

“Go h’on away. Go h’on away.

Mind yer, I’m meanin’ wot I say.

My ‘air and ‘at-pin’s gone astray—

Stop yer messin’.

A pound a week yer earn yer say—

Oh, I don’t fink!- Two bob a day’s

More like. I loves yer. Yer can stay,

Yer bloomin’ blessin’.”

They tickled the people’s fancy; they were so obviously out for a lark and so evidently intended to have it. When “My bloke’s a moke” was sung, from bank to bank the chorus was taken up; even the strollers, hanging over the bridge, caught the swing of it.

“For yer cawn’t be ‘appy when yer ‘alf in love—

Yer must taik one road or the other;

Yer can maike o’ life an up’ill shove,

Or marry a bloke wot ain’t yer brother.”

The Faun Man turned to the golden woman and addressed the words to her shamelessly. He put his arm about her, and drew her head down against his shoulder. Through the slits in her mask her eyes gleamed up. Peter, watching, wondered why it was that she would only be kind to him in fun; he had noticed that, when the Faun Man was in earnest, she never responded.

They had been singing for an hour, pushed this way and that, too jammed to attempt steering. Their punt had drifted near a house-boat, all a-swing with lanterns and steep with flowers. Through the windows they could see that a dinner had just ended; tall young men in evening dress sprawled back in chairs. Corks were still popping.

The Faun Man whispered, “They’re one of the crews breaking training. What’ll we give ‘em? Oh, yes, this’ll do. Tune up.” So they tuned up:

“If yer gal ain’t all yer thought ‘er,

And for everyfing yer’ve bought ‘er

She don’t seem to care a ‘appenny pot o’ glue;

If she tells yer she won’t miss yer,

And she doesn’t want ter kiss yer,

Though yer’ve cuddled ‘er from ‘Ammersmif ter Kew;

If yer little side excurshiums

To lands of pink nasturtiums

Don’t make ‘er ‘arf so soft as they make you,

Why, never be down’earted,

For that’s the way love started—

Adam ended wery ‘appy—and that’s true.”

The young men had come out. They were slightly unsteady; some of them found difficulty in keeping their cigars in their mouths. They held one another’s arms and laughed loudly. Their faces were flushed and their hair ruffled. But, for all that, because they were young and had done their work gamely that afternoon, they seemed in keeping with the atmosphere of carnival. A voice on the edge of the darkness shouted one word, “Hardcastle.” The crowd stood up in their boats, and commenced to cheer. From the group of crewmen one tall fellow was pushed forward and lifted on a chair. He looked slim as a girl in his evening-dress; his thin, rather handsome face, wore a weak, inconsequential expression. When the babel of voices had died down he spoke thickly and hesitatingly. “Yes, I won. I dunno. Did I win? I can’t remember. Suppose I must have. One of you chaps tell me to-morrow.—Anyway, if I did win, here’s to the losers. Plucky devils!”

Cherry had been leaning forward; her mask had slipped aside in her eagerness. Hardcastle saw her. He stared—made an effort to pull his wits together. In a second he had jumped from the chair, had caught her by the hand, was helping her aboard the house-boat. She held on to Peter, laughing and dragging him after her. The others followed reluctantly—after all, they were out for adventure.

As soon as he had entered the cabin, Hardcastle slipped his arms about her and swung her up on to the table amid the clatter of breaking glasses. “Sing, you little beauty. Sing something.”

The Faun Man pushed his way forward; the matter was going beyond a joke—his intention was to stop it. The golden woman clutched him, “Don’t make a row, Lorie, They don’t know who we are. We’ve let ourselves in for it; let’s go through with it like sports.”

Cherry seemed not at all offended; the spirit of bacchanalia possessed her. Her usually pale face had a pretty flush. She stood tiptoe, her red lips pouting, watching through the slits in her mask these fine young animals whom the river had applauded. Her eyes came back to Hard-castle. “I don’t want to sing.” It was like a shy child talking. “If you like, I’ll dance.”

In a trice Hardcastle had lifted her again in his arms. To balance herself she had to cling to his neck and shoulders. “Clear the table,” he shouted.

With his free hand he commenced tugging at the cloth. Others helped him. With a jangle and smash that could be heard across the river, silver, glass and lighted candles were swept to the floor. He set her back on the polished surface and ran to the piano in the corner, crying, “I’ll tickle the ivories—you dance.”

With his head turned, he played and watched her. From the ruin she had caught up a red rose and held it between her red lips by the stalk. Her feet began to move, slowly at first—then wildly. She swayed and tossed, glided stealthily, bent and shot upward like a dart. Her breath was coming fast—all the while her gray eyes sought the man’s who watched her across his shoulder. The other men were infected by her madness—they took hands and circled the table, singing whatever came into their heads. To Peter it was torture. He thought that she knew it. He guessed that she had done it on purpose. He had wearied her with his respect He remembered one of the Faun Man’s sayings, “No woman likes to be respected; she prefers to be loved, even by a man whom she doesn’t want.”

The piano stopped. Hardcastle leapt up. “Here, I want to see her.”

“No. No,” cried Cherry.

“I do, and I will,” he retorted. He had stumbled against the table and caught her by the knees; his hands were groping up to tear aside her mask. An arm shot out; he staggered. Another blow struck him between the eyes. He measured his length on the floor. Peter dragged Cherry to him, pressing her against him. All was hubbub. The Faun Man and Harry were on either side of him, forming a guard. Of a sudden the lights went out—some one had knocked over the lamps. In the darkness the sound of scuffling subsided. The Faun Man’s voice was heard, saying, “Look here, you chaps, that wasn’t very decent of Hardcastle. He’s drunk, so we’ll say no more about it. But you’re gentlemen. Let us out. We’re going.”

As they stepped into the night, Cherry felt warm lips touch her forehead. She heard protesting voices, and one which whispered, “You get off with her. We’ll follow.” The punt stole out into the darkness of the river. When she lifted her head from the cushions she found that the ripples on the water were a-silver, and that a solitary figure was seated in the stern, paddling.