When they came to the enumerating of precisely how many perished, they stuck out their fingers three times. But some of them weren't content with only three deaths in one family; they wanted to go on counting. Then the sailorman would stop singing and reprove them gently, “You know, young gen'lemen, that ain't right. It ain't fitting to joke on death.” At last it occurred to him that something was amiss. “I'm afraid I'm a-makin' a fool of meself.” “Don't mention it, Mr. Taylor,” they shouted. Their answer didn't reassure him, though they hurled it at him in varying keys many times. He insisted on leaving, making his exit backward because he had heard that a gentleman must always keep his face toward a lady. The rain was over. The sky had a sorry look for having been petulant. The sun, though he still refused to come out, hung golden ladders from the clouds. They stepped into the street, gazing up and feeling the air with their hands. “What about it?” asked Harry. “Why, of course we're going,” said the golden woman. Her eyes met Peter's; they seemed to beg him not to call off, but to accompany her. Why was she so insistent about getting him to London? Who was waiting there? Why wouldn't she tell him anything about the Faun Man or Cherry? He calculated how long the drive would take. They were not quite half-way. If they continued the journey they'd barely catch that last train back. Again he recognized the appeal in her eyes. “What about it? What do you say, Peter?” “I? Why, I'm game. I'm going.” Some of the men refused. The party was reduced to six when they started. What a wet clean world they entered! It had all been made new and, somehow, tender. The spray of rain was still in the air; it swept against their faces coolly, vanished unexplained, and touched them again without warning. In meadows and tree-tops there was a continual muffled patter, as of little unseen people treading softly. From the back seats came bursts of laughter and snatches of song, mimicking Mr. Taylor's impressive chorus: “It was on a dark and stormy night, One, two, three--perished in the snow.” The golden woman bent her head aside, “Tryin' to find a nice gal wot'll appreciate my undoubted fine qualities! That's what all you men are doing.” “Oh, I don't know.” “Yes, you are, from the minute you put on long trousers to the last moment when you step into the grave. Men don't find her often; when they do, as likely as not she doesn't want them.” “I know a little about that,” said Peter; “so does Lorie. Women aren't very kind to the men who love them.”