It was nearly six. The last of the Finals had been rowed; the Regatta was ended. Far up the course one could still hear the distant cheering from the lawn where prizes were being distributed. The most sensational race of the afternoon had been the Diamond Sculls, in which Hardcastle had won by a bare half-length. Peter still tingled with the madness of the excitement, the splendid grit of the contested fight and the wildness of the applause. He had seen a slight young hero lifted out of his shell and carried shoulder-high; he wanted something like that to happen to himself so that Cherry might approve of him. He had just come from accompanying her back to The Red Lion; in an hour, when she had changed for dinner, he was going to fetch her. He had one more night before him--the gayest of them all, when the crews broke training, and then----. How often would he see her again? The gray old town would recover from its invasion, and settle back into routine and eventless quiet. Would something similar happen to his life? Nevertheless, he had one more night. As he climbed aboard _The Skylark_ and entered, the Faun Man looked up. “Peter, i'm tired of being respectable--I want to be vulgar.” Peter threw himself into a creaking wicker-chair. “That's not difficult; it's chiefly a matter of clothes.” “And accent,” the Faun Man added; “refined speech is the soap and water of good manners.” Peter chuckled. “Then don't tub.” The Faun Man stood up and stretched himself. “I haven't. I've written a love-lyric that never saw a nailbrush. It's called _The Belle of Shoreditch_. When I've sung it to you I'll tell you why I wrote it. Isn't this a ripping tune?” He tinkled it over; then sat down crosslegged on the floor and commenced to drawl the words out: “My bloke's a moke And 'e cawn't tell me why; But the fust time 'e spoke 'Twas no more than a sigh. Says I, 'Don't mind me; we'll soon be dead.' Says 'e, 'If yer dies, I'll break me 'ead.' Says I, 'Why not yer 'eart instead, Yer quaint old moke?' “For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love--! Yer must taik one road or the other; Yer can maike o' life an up'ill shove, Or marry a bloke wot ain't yer brother.” “Chorus, Peter. Pick it up.” The Faun Man nodded the time, swaying from the hips and rolling his head. “For yer cawn't be 'appy when yer 'alf in love.” He laid his mandolin aside. “Catchy, isn't it? There mayn't be much soap about the dialect, but there's plenty of philosophy in the sense. More than one person in this party is half in love. Take example from me, Peter; don't make a fool of yourself.” Peter's face went red. He didn't think he'd been so obvious. To escape further pursuit, he turned the corner rapidly, “When are you going to start being vulgar?”