Again, silent as the rustle of a woman’s dress walking in a dark garden, Guy’s shining bonnet menaced the tail of our eye, and Guy himself, alone in front, yellow-haired, grim, fair herald of a fighting pageant in his brilliant Fair Isle sweater, and now the face of Venice, leaning forward to Guy’s shoulder, excited, exhorting. Venice, for Venice! She would pass the lady of the dancing hair, would Venice. But the stork cried hoarsely, flew on. We wrestled. Silent as phantoms, we wrestled. One hundred and twenty horses, a winged Mercury and a stork wrestled for the dominion of nothing on the Reading road. There was a corner, proud and saturnine from many fell triumphs. The stork screamed a taunt, flew on. “Ho!” gasped Hugo, chattering, from behind. “Steady, girl! Shirley’s frightened....” “Let him pass, Iris!” cried I. A little scared, a woman driving, you never know, might lose her head, boy’s head, curly head, white and tiger-tawny, but too white, too intent, too infernally reckless.... “Iris, Iris!” “Can do seventy-five, if you like,” cried the lips of the dancing hair. “Let him pass, Iris!” “Pass? Am I mad! As soon let happiness pass! See, the stars are laughing....” “Iris, Iris!” “Let him pass, Iris! Damn you, it won’t hold the road!” “Why, the road’s fainting with joy! Can do seventy-six if you like. But not more....” A new road, recently laid down to soften the passage of footlight-favourites to the reaches of Taplow and Maidenhead, wide, deserted of houses. Meadows swept each side into the desert darkness. Iris, perhaps remembering Mr. Polly, perhaps thinking Mr. Polly had slept long enough, kicked open the exhaust. That lends another mile an hour to speed. Another sixty horses gave answer behind, then fell snarling back towards London. “Seventy-one, Iris!” “Ow!” she breathed. “Accelerator burning foot. Ow! Hell!” “Maidenhead!” screamed Shirley. “To the right, Iris!” And so we came into the yard of Quindle’s. Still, sleeping, shuttered, Quindle’s hostelry was a rebuke to the flaming lights which made a festival of the desert scene. Then Guy’s car swung in, poor winged Mercury. Shows one, don’t you know, how much gods are worth.... “Sickening, Iris. You had me properly beat that time.” “But how my foot burns, Guy!” “Look!” said Venice. “Hist!” A man in shirt-sleeves was come out of the hotel. He stared at us, rubbed his eyes, stared at us. “Ho!” called Major Cypress. “Ho, there! Is that Quindle’s speaking?” The man in shirt-sleeves came through the flame of the lamps. An amiable man, he looked. “Now remember,” whispered Shirley at large, “no matter how beastly they are to us, we are going to bathe. Let every one speak at once. That will baffle him.” “Evening,” said the man in shirt-sleeves. “Bit late, isn’t it?” “Not one yet,” said Hugo. “I say, we want to bathe.” “Can’t have no rooms,” said the man in shirt-sleeves. “Hotel’s full.” “But we don’t want no rooms!” Venice pleaded. “We only want to bathe....”