The next day, Sunday, was that fixed for the great picnic up at Marston, for which the unwilling Pilot had been appointed Caterer and General Manager. A regular fleet of punts had been chartered to convey the party, and cushions were piled in stacks, while Woodman’s express toiled down soon after breakfast under an immense load of eat- and drinkables. It required our utmost efforts to arouse de Beresford, who had finished the previous day and commenced this by an all-night poker sitting lasting till daylight. By the time Freddy had got his aunt and Ophelia under weigh, and we had shepherded the girls from the Cathedral to the barge, it was very nearly mid-day. The stowing process took some time, though as I had already secured Muriel, Maisie and Reggie for my punt, I did not much mind what happened. We headed the procession, carrying, I fancy, most of the liquid refreshment, and punted up stream at a fearful rate under Reggie’s guidance. We had scarcely passed the Thomas’ ferry when a fearful yell announced that the Bugg’s parasol had caught in the rope, and been carried down stream. It was rescued by a man in a Canader and brought back to Ophelia, who beamed on the canoeist and said, ‘So kind of you to have reprieved my sunshade.’ This remark was passed down to the other punts, and reduced Blithers to such a hopeless state that he declared himself unable to punt any longer, and retired in favour of Accrington, who continued to propel the boat for the rest of the day. The party progressed without incident for some time, during which Reggie, who had contrived that I should punt, engaged the girls in conversation, which appeared to afford them immense amusement, but which I could not catch; and though I repeatedly begged to share the joke, their only reply was to shout in chorus, ‘Now do punt up, we’re hardly moving.’ Their unsympathetic treatment at length moved me to give up punting, and balance the pole carefully on Reggie, who after a while bestirred himself to work. ‘I wonder,’ remarked Maisie contemplatively, as I seated myself beside her, ‘whether anything liquid and cool is obtainable in this department.’ ‘I will see,’ I said, as I foraged in the end and discovered a jar of Moselle Cup. ‘How’s that?’ ‘Great,’ said Muriel and Maisie in chorus, as they each held out a glass. ‘Ah!’ continued Maisie, as she gulped it down and paused to think, ‘I feel just like that mythological undraped person, who was always drinking and never satisfied.’ ‘There must have been lots of them, both the thirsty and the undraped,’ I said, ‘your description is rather vague.’ ‘Yes, perhaps it is,’ she replied, ‘but anyhow I wish we adhered to those ancient customs now, except perhaps that one about not being satisfied.’ ‘I think----,’ I began, when it struck me that my thoughts had better be suppressed, and I relapsed into silence.