Dartie sat at the end, next to him Irene, then Bosinney, then Winifred. There was hardly room for four, and the man of the world could feel Irene’s arm crushed against his own; he knew that she could not withdraw it without seeming rude, and this amused him; he devised every now and again a movement that would bring her closer still. He thought: “That Buccaneer Johnny shan’t have it all to himself! It’s a pretty tight fit, certainly!”

From far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle of a mandoline, and voices singing the old round:

“A boat, a boat, unto the ferry,

For we’ll go over and be merry;

And laugh, and quaff, and drink brown sherry!”