“Bar’s closed,” said the man in shirt-sleeves. “Serve you right,” said Hugo. “But we’ll give you a drink if you want one. Here you are. Beer or champagne?” “I want to bathe,” Shirley pleaded. “Can’t bathe ’ere,” said the man in shirt-sleeves. “You don’t know about us,” said Venice severely. “We can bath anywhere.” “Against the lor, miss.” “That will be all right about the law.” A sudden voice, a calm voice, a cold, chill murmur. It fell from heights like a douche. The man in shirt-sleeves tried not to have to look up all the way to Guy’s face. Too tall was Guy, in that light. Guy smiled down at the man in shirt-sleeves. “Hot night,” Guy murmured. “Very hot. My children, all these....” “Ho,” said the man in shirt-sleeves. “’Ot or cold, it’s against the lor, that’s wot.” “Don’t you worry your head about the law,” said Guy. “But what you might do, now, would be to get us some towels. We forgot towels....” “Against the lor, anyhow,” said the man in shirt-sleeves. “I do wish you’d say something else just once,” snapped Shirley. Iris, a white face, gardenia-white, mocking hair, a barbaric scarf about her throat, her hat a splash of black against the frail fancy that was her dress, standing a little away, staring at the stars. “A light,” she murmured. “A light!” Then Napier was beside her, lighting her cigarette, lighting also the curious, still smile on his acolyte’s face, an enchanted smile, the smile of a man drowned in a magic pool. The collar of his white shirt was unbuttoned, the dark hair sleek in the glow of the flaming lights.... “Naps, give me a light, too.” “Here you are, Venice,” said Hugo. “Oh, it’s gone out! Naps, a light!” “Sorry, Venice....” Guy seemed to be shaking hands with the man in shirt-sleeves. “Get you some towels,” said he, moving off. Hugo whispered: “One law for the rich, one for the poor. Dear me!” “Sickening. But we may as well take advantage of what’s left of it. Getting a bit mouldy, that law.” “Come on, Hugo. God, it’s dark! Which way is it? We must find a boat....” “Naps, this way! No, down here ... but hang on to my arm! Soon find a boat....” “You can’t have no boat!” called the man in shirt-sleeves. “You get those towels,” said Hugo severely. “The way you talk!” “Please, your arm,” Iris begged me, husky voice. “Foot hurts. And isn’t it dark!” “Here you are!” came Venice’s clear boy’s voice from the pit of darkness ahead, beneath us. We faltered, blind as bats, down the slope of a landing-stage. “Matches, please!” Shirley’s voice. Oh, trust Shirley and Venice to have the affair well in hand! The pit of darkness ahead was bitten by tiny flames. “Oh, look out, Naps! Ow, God damn you!” “Naps, you might wipe your feet on your own wife, would you?” There were uncertainties, holes, fissures of splintered wood. The tiny flames in the pit ahead were like lance-points thrusting the darkness deeper into the eyes.