“What would I feel at this moment,” he said to himself, “if Weevil were a girl and Lobbie a little girl? Should I in that case be quite untroubled by this Giorgione-like fête-champêtre? No!”⁠—so he answered his own question⁠—“I should feel just as uncomfortable even then at my complicity. It isn’t a question of the sex⁠ ⁠… it’s a question of something else⁠ ⁠… it’s a question of⁠—” A noisy splash made by Lob as he darted into the water, and a still louder splash made by Mr. Weevil as he plunged to meet him, interrupted Wolf’s train of ideas.

He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to five. He scrambled to his feet and picked up his stick. “I must rush off,” he cried. “You’ll excuse me, Sir? We’ll meet again soon, Otter. Goodbye, Weevil! Goodbye, Lobbie! Don’t stay in too long or you’ll catch a chill, and I shall get into trouble with the family.”