With his free hand he commenced tugging at the cloth. Others helped him. With a jangle and smash that could be heard across the river, silver, glass and lighted candles were swept to the floor. He set her back on the polished surface and ran to the piano in the corner, crying, “I'll tickle the ivories--you dance.” With his head turned, he played and watched her. From the ruin she had caught up a red rose and held it between her red lips by the stalk. Her feet began to move, slowly at first--then wildly. She swayed and tossed, glided stealthily, bent and shot upward like a dart. Her breath was coming fast--all the while her gray eyes sought the man's who watched her across his shoulder. The other men were infected by her madness--they took hands and circled the table, singing whatever came into their heads. To Peter it was torture. He thought that she knew it. He guessed that she had done it on purpose. He had wearied her with his respect He remembered one of the Faun Man's sayings, “No woman likes to be respected; she prefers to be loved, even by a man whom she doesn't want.” The piano stopped. Hardcastle leapt up. “Here, I want to see her.” “No. No,” cried Cherry. “I do, and I will,” he retorted. He had stumbled against the table and caught her by the knees; his hands were groping up to tear aside her mask. An arm shot out; he staggered. Another blow struck him between the eyes. He measured his length on the floor. Peter dragged Cherry to him, pressing her against him. All was hubbub. The Faun Man and Harry were on either side of him, forming a guard. Of a sudden the lights went out--some one had knocked over the lamps. In the darkness the sound of scuffling subsided. The Faun Man's voice was heard, saying, “Look here, you chaps, that wasn't very decent of Hardcastle. He's drunk, so we'll say no more about it. But you're gentlemen. Let us out. We're going.” As they stepped into the night, Cherry felt warm lips touch her forehead. She heard protesting voices, and one which whispered, “You get off with her. We'll follow.” The punt stole out into the darkness of the river. When she lifted her head from the cushions she found that the ripples on the water were a-silver, and that a solitary figure was seated in the stern, paddling. CHAPTER XXXI--A NIGHT WITH THE MOON He was taking her in the wrong direction. Why? To reach the Red Lion he should have steered upstream. Far behind, chiseled out by the moonlight, the town stood sharp against the star-strewn sky--sagging roofs, twisted chimney-pots and tall spires. From its walls came the shouts of roisterers and the sound of discordant singing, which broke off abruptly, only to commence again more faintly.