To lands of pink nasturtiums
Don’t make ‘er ‘arf so soft as they make you,
Why, never be down’earted,
For that’s the way love started—
Adam ended wery ‘appy—and that’s true.”
The young men had come out. They were slightly unsteady; some of them found difficulty in keeping their cigars in their mouths. They held one another’s arms and laughed loudly. Their faces were flushed and their hair ruffled. But, for all that, because they were young and had done their work gamely that afternoon, they seemed in keeping with the atmosphere of carnival. A voice on the edge of the darkness shouted one word, “Hardcastle.” The crowd stood up in their boats, and commenced to cheer. From the group of crewmen one tall fellow was pushed forward and lifted on a chair. He looked slim as a girl in his evening-dress; his thin, rather handsome face, wore a weak, inconsequential expression. When the babel of voices had died down he spoke thickly and hesitatingly. “Yes, I won. I dunno. Did I win? I can’t remember. Suppose I must have. One of you chaps tell me to-morrow.—Anyway, if I did win, here’s to the losers. Plucky devils!”
Cherry had been leaning forward; her mask had slipped aside in her eagerness. Hardcastle saw her. He stared—made an effort to pull his wits together. In a second he had jumped from the chair, had caught her by the hand, was helping her aboard the house-boat. She held on to Peter, laughing and dragging him after her. The others followed reluctantly—after all, they were out for adventure.
As soon as he had entered the cabin, Hardcastle slipped his arms about her and swung her up on to the table amid the clatter of breaking glasses. “Sing, you little beauty. Sing something.”
The Faun Man pushed his way forward; the matter was going beyond a joke—his intention was to stop it. The golden woman clutched him, “Don’t make a row, Lorie, They don’t know who we are. We’ve let ourselves in for it; let’s go through with it like sports.”
Cherry seemed not at all offended; the spirit of bacchanalia possessed her. Her usually pale face had a pretty flush. She stood tiptoe, her red lips pouting, watching through the slits in her mask these fine young animals whom the river had applauded. Her eyes came back to Hard-castle. “I don’t want to sing.” It was like a shy child talking. “If you like, I’ll dance.”