A long lane of quiet shallow water leads to the tail of the pool, and here the river spreads out into a broad deep basin. Grey sluice gates, flanked with red brick form the head of it, and on one side stretches out a green meadow, on the other there rises out of an undergrowth of hazel and hemlock, a copse of tall trees, where the nightingales always omit to sing. They ran the boat in at the edge of the copse, and Reggie lighted the spirit lamp to boil the kettle for tea, while the Babe tied up Mr. Sykes, lest he should forget himself at the sight of four bathers. Among sensuous pleasures, bathing on a hot day stands alone, and Byron’s Pool is in the first flight of bathing places. There are some who prefer Romney Weir, and say that bathing is nought unless you plunge into a soda water of bubbles; some think that the essence of bathing is a mere pickling of the human form in brine, and are not happy except in the sea; to others the _joie de baigner_ consists of flashing through the air much as M. Doré has pictured Satan falling down from Heaven. But in Byron’s Pool the reflective, or what we may call the garden bather is well off. He has clean water deep to the edge, a grassy slope shadowed by trees to dry on, and a boat to take a header from. Even Mr. Stevenson, a precisian in these matters, would allow “that the imagination takes a share in such a cleansing.” And by the time they were dressed, the kettle was boiling, and Fortune smiled on them. The Babe refused, however, to stir before he had drunk four cups of tea, and in consequence the kettle had to be boiled again. “Besides,” said he, “Mr. Sykes hasn’t had his second cup.” It was generally felt that this was more important than the Babe’s fourth cup, and Reggie filled the kettle. “The Babe’s pensive,” he said, “What is it, Babe?” “I don’t know. Sometimes I get pensive on fine days or on wet evenings, but it doesn’t usually last long. I think I want to fall in love.” “Well it’s May week next week.” “One is always supposed to fall in love with each other’s sisters in May week,” remarked the Babe with a fine disregard of grammar. “But the sisters either die of consumption or else the Dean snaps them up, and so it doesn’t come off. Besides one so seldom does what one is supposed to do.” “Not often. Byron was supposed to bathe here for instance, and you are supposed to be in by ten to-night, Babe.” “Napoleon said--” began the Babe. “Dry up. Why did they gate you?” “For repeated warnings, I believe. I never asked them to warn me. They go and warn me,” said the Babe, getting a little shrill, “and then they go and gate me for it. I have been allowed no voice whatever in the matter.” “What did they warn you about?” “Oh, it was Bill and the bicycle between them, and the time, and the place. Life is a sad business, and mine is a hard lot.” “You are a bad lot,” suggested Jack. “Jack, for God’s sake don’t be funny,” said Ealing.