But from the water the voices seemed to come from within a foot of one’s ear. They must, I thought, be straight ahead, towards the opposite bank. Swiftly a whisper cut the water near me, past me. “Young slacker!” came Guy’s murmur. But I, not for exercise was I on the bosom of the waters that night. I lazed, listening to the voices ahead, sharp and clear across the water. Dimly, softly, clammy-cold, a weed would brush one. The stars were like the lance-points of a mighty host marching down to the chastisement of the world. But the darkness baffled them, whilst I floated into the heart of it, I loitered.
“Mind your head on this quay here, Venice! Venice! Hello, where’s Venice?”
“Here. I say, what’s this place?”
“Oh, my pretty dears, why isn’t one always in the water! I say, what’s this wooden thing?”
“Looks like a landing-stage to me. What? I say, Hugo, what’s this place? What?”
“Am I a graduate of Maidenhead, asking me? But let’s try the place, anyway.”
“I’ve heard there’s a River-Night-Club arrangement about here. Very exclusive.”
“We know. Excludes all who can’t crowd in. Come on. Me for wine.”
I found them, having almost broken my shins against a wooden affair, lying grouped on what Shirley said was unmistakably “a sweep of velvet sward.” Venice, it seemed, was exploring. You couldn’t see your hand before your face. But you didn’t want to.
“Funny,” sighed Hugo, “if chap, just any chap, probably quite a nice chap, but timid chap, wakes from sleep to see Venice looking in on him. Mermaid theory....”