I answered: “Are you?”
“Practically. Bob and I are going to swim. Will you join us?”
I refused, and they went off complaining of bushes in a way which suggested lack of shoes, and I heard their voices down the stream and around the turn. As I dozed again Walter was pulling at my tent flap.
“Margaret! Open this—I want my camera.”
Walter was in a blue woolly gown, with his glasses on, and the faithful cap from which he is seldom parted was on his head.
“Are you going to swim in a cap? What are you going to photograph?” I demanded.
“Three films left,” he murmured, and pushed up his glasses and scrutinized me. “Where’s the tripod? What? I’m going to take Bob as a—as a Greek deity.” He grinned. “There—I’ve got it all,” and he started out of the tent.
As I said, my sense of decorum has wasted by association with the Morgans. I simply answered: “If you’re going to do the God Pan you’d better take him playing on his pipe,” and Walter stopped.
“That’s true.” He came back and dived into his tent.
Bob had yesterday, on the journey, hollowed an instrument from a bit of wood which gave out flute-like murmurings in keeping with the forest. Walter with this woodland pipe and camera and tripod melted into the bush.