All along the banks a misty vapour, rising from the earth, twisted and wreathed till it wrapped the tow-path in gloom. Deep shadows stretched their quaint deformities fantastically across the wave, mingling deceitfully with black clumps of tall reeds, into which the canoe occasionally glided with a dangerous swish.
The distance from the backwater to the Reach was fortunately short. Coloured lights from the numerous house-boats that were gathered in line to view the morrow's regatta guided them, and from the merry laughter which assailed their ears they learnt the geographical position of Sir Eustace Lowther's floating fairyland, styled ironically "The Raft."
"We're famishing," roared someone from its balcony.
"So are we," came in duet from the canoe.
"Take care of the ice-box," called another voice from the gloom, as a paddle hit some obstacle in the darkness.
"Fiz cooling," explained a guest, appreciatingly. "Your hand?"
Lady Rolleston gave it, and was escorted up the steps to the feasting place.
It was set out with a studied view to polite vagabondage. Deftly manœuvred forks, two-pronged twigs mounted in silver, and clasp knives with chased and monogrammed handles, garden lanterns in frames of fretted iron, osier baskets bursting with an incongruous burden of river flowers and hot-house fruits, champagne in old Bohemian mugs, ices to be dug from crystal troughs with silver trowels, all these heterodoxies accentuated the bizarrerie which made "The Raft" such an unique and enviable lounging place.
Among the guests were three painters, a peer, a novelist, an actress of note, and one or two women whose beauty was, if not classical, at least effervescent and exhilarating. Merry talk prevailed as a matter of course, and bets were freely exchanged on the prospects of the crews.
"I hope to-morrow won't be a pelting day like last year; it was ghastly," said one of the belles to Sir Henry Rolleston.