Harry was speaking to the golden woman. “So they're not coming?” She crouched her chin against her shoulder, gazing at him innocently and wide-eyed. “Who?” “Why, my brother and Cherry. What's the secret? Look here, Eve, you ought to tell us. I'm certain he sent a message--some sort of an explanation.” “Are you?” She gave him a tantalizing smile; then turned to Peter. “Peter shall know; perhaps before we reach London.” There was a low rumble, followed by a crash. The rain came smashing against the panes. They pushed back their chairs and ran to look out. In an incredibly short time streets were flooded; gutters were turbulent with muddy rivers. Rain thudded against the pavement and sprayed up in little fountains. “Doesn't look to me,” said Harry, “as though we'll ever get as far as London.” “Got to,” said the golden woman. The deluge commenced to slacken, but the storm still hung above the valley, moaning and grumbling. Rain swept like smoke across the house-tops. Harry laughed. “Got to! You can't drive a four-inhand to London through that. May as well make the best of it. We've to be back in Oxford before midnight, or else----. Perhaps there's still time to do it. We'll give it a chance.” Some of the party burst into the room. “I say, you chaps, we've discovered a regular circus. Such a rum old cock! Come out and talk to him!” The golden woman raised her head. “Why not bring him in here?” “But we didn't think you'd------.” She lifted her hands and let them fall despairingly. “You men! How selfish you are, keeping everything that's vulgar to yourselves!” Scuffling sounded in the passage and a voice booming protests, “Not like this! It ain't fitting. Not before a lady.” A red-faced sailor, in the loose blouse and baggy trousers of the Royal Navy, was pushed through the doorway. In a deep bass voice he immediately commenced to excuse himself. “Not my fault, miss.” He tugged at an imaginary lock on his forehead. “I'm Mr. Taylor, I am--'ome on a 'oliday, tryin' to find a nice gal wot'll appreciate my h'un-doubted fine qualities.” The golden woman stretched back her neck, half-closed her eyes and chuckled. “Are you sure you have any, Mr. Taylor?” The man fumbled at his cap. “Used to 'ave--used to sing terrible.” “Sing terribly for me now, won't you?” He struck an attitude, flattered by the request, and hitched up his trousers. It was a ballad of betrayed maidenhood that he sang, solemn as a dirge and intended to be hugely affecting. It told of the home-coming, with her two babies, of a girl whose sweetheart had deserted her. It had a chorus in which, with an unhappy wag of his head, the sailorman signed to his audience to join: “Go ring those village bells, Let all the people know, It was on a dark and stormy night, One, two, three--perished in the snow.”