Nick stood a moment. His eyelids closed, languorously. He stretched his arms out and up deliciously, bringing his stomach in and his chest out. He took off his cap and stuffed it into his pocket. He strolled across the thick cool nap of the grass, deserting the pebble path. At the west edge of the island a sign said: "No One Allowed in the Shrubbery." Ignoring it, Nick parted the branches, stopped and crept, reached the bank that sloped down to the cool green stream, took off his coat, and lay relaxed upon the ground. Above him the tree branches made a pattern against the sky. Little ripples lipped the shore. Scampering velvet-footed things, feathered things, winged things made pleasant stir among the leaves. Nick slept. He awoke in half an hour refreshed. He lay there, thinking of nothing--a charming gift. He found a stray peanut in his pocket and fed it to a friendly squirrel. His hand encountered the cool metal of his harmonica. He drew out the instrument, placed his coat, folded, under his head, crossed his knees, one leg swinging idly, and began to play rapturously. He was perfectly happy. He played Gimme Love, whose jazz measures are stolen from Mendelssohn's Spring Song. He did not know this. The leaves rustled. He did not turn his head. "Hello, Pan!" said a voice. A girl came down the slope and seated herself beside him. She was not smiling. Nick removed the harmonica from his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hello who?" "Hello, Pan." "Wrong number, lady," Nick said, and again applied his lips to the mouth organ. The girl laughed then, throwing back her head. Her throat was long and slim and brown. She clasped her knees with her arms and looked at Nick amusedly. Nick thought she was a kind of homely little thing. "Pan," she explained, "was a pagan deity. He played pipes in the woods." "'S all right with me," Nick ventured, bewildered but amiable. He wished she'd go away. But she didn't. She began to take off her shoes and stockings. She went down to the water's edge, then, and paddled her feet. Nick sat up, outraged. "Say, you can't do that." She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "Oh, yes, I can. It's so hot." She wriggled her toes ecstatically. The leaves rustled again, briskly, unmistakably this time. A heavy tread. A rough voice. "Say, looka here! Get out of there, you! What the----" A policeman, red-faced, wroth. "You can't do that! Get outa here!" It was like a movie, Nick thought. The girl turned her head. "Oh, now, Mr. Elwood," she said. "Oh, it's you, miss," said the policeman. You would not have believed it could be the same policeman. He even giggled. "Thought you was away." "I was. In fact, I am, really. I just got sick of it and ran away for a day. Drove. Alone. The family'll be wild."