“That’s it—we travel light. All luggage too heavy for the rack, to be thrown on to the rails.”
“Are you speaking symbolically?”
He said, “No, of course not. Damn symbolism!... I’m speaking of Aureole and Oliver.”
The latter emerged from the bungalow, and called out something about ‘London.’ Stuart walked quickly to meet him:
“Look here, old man, she may lie low for a week or two, but believe me, there’s no earthly reason for you to get feverish about it.” And then the notion of Strachey being feverish struck him as inexpressibly comic.
“I’m not. But I’m catching the eight-forty-one to town. She has probably gone home. I don’t care to think of her messing about with revolvers, even to impress me.”
The pistol idea had established itself firmly; Stuart saw that it was hopeless to attempt removing it before the eight-forty-one started.
“Good-bye.” Oliver had evidently forgotten about Peter.
“Good luck!” and Stuart returned to the boat.
“I like Nigger Strachey,” Peter decided, squatting on the rail of the ‘Faustina.’ “Stuart, how far are you concerned in this affair?”