“Hot night,” Guy murmured. “Very hot. My children, all these. …”
“Ho,” said the man in shirtsleeves. “ ’Ot or cold, it’s against the lor, that’s wot.”
“Don’t you worry your head about the law,” said Guy. “But what you might do, now, would be to get us some towels. We forgot towels. …”
“Against the lor, anyhow,” said the man in shirtsleeves.
“I do wish you’d say something else just once,” snapped Shirley.
Iris, a white face, gardenia-white, mocking hair, a barbaric scarf about her throat, her hat a splash of black against the frail fancy that was her dress, standing a little away, staring at the stars. “A light,” she murmured. “A light!” Then Napier was beside her, lighting her cigarette, lighting also the curious, still smile on his acolyte’s face, an enchanted smile, the smile of a man drowned in a magic pool. The collar of his white shirt was unbuttoned, the dark hair sleek in the glow of the flaming lights. …
“Naps, give me a light, too.”
“Here you are, Venice,” said Hugo.
“Oh, it’s gone out! Naps, a light!”
“Sorry, Venice. …”
Guy seemed to be shaking hands with the man in shirtsleeves.
“Get you some towels,” said he, moving off.
Hugo whispered: “One law for the rich, one for the poor. Dear me!”
“Sickening. But we may as well take advantage of what’s left of it. Getting a bit mouldy, that law.”
“Come on, Hugo. God, it’s dark! Which way is it? We must find a boat. …”
“Naps, this way! No, down here … but hang on to my arm! Soon find a boat. …”
“You can’t have no boat!” called the man in shirtsleeves.
“You get those towels,” said Hugo severely. “The way you talk!”
“Please, your arm,” Iris begged me, husky voice. “Foot hurts. And isn’t it dark!”
“Here you are!” came Venice’s clear boy’s voice from the pit of darkness ahead, beneath us.
We faltered, blind as bats, down the slope of a landing-stage.
“Matches, please!” Shirley’s voice. Oh, trust Shirley and Venice to have the affair well in hand! The pit of darkness ahead was bitten by tiny flames. “Oh, look out, Naps! Ow, God damn you!”
“Naps, you might wipe your feet on your own wife, would you?”
There were uncertainties, holes, fissures of splintered wood. The tiny flames in the pit ahead were like lance-points thrusting the darkness deeper into the eyes.
Iris and I marched slowly as the smoke of our cigarettes in the breathless night. She leaned on my arm, completely. “Foot hurts.” I wished she wouldn’t. I almost said, “don’t.” Her touch confounded, confused. She was tangible, until she touched you. She was finite, until she touched you. She was a woman, until she touched you. Then she became woman, and you water. She became a breath of womanhood clothed in the soft, delicious mystery of the flesh. Touching her, you touched all desire. She was impersonal and infinite, like all desire. She was indifferent to all but her desire, like all desire. She was a breath carved in flesh, like all desire. She was the flower of the plant of all desire. Desire is the name of the plant that Lilith sowed, and every now and then it puts out the flower that in the choir of flowers is the paramour of the mandrake.
“You are very silent, Iris. …”
“Yes … yes? Sometimes. … I don’t know, but it’s as though the stars make me nervous, sometimes. They’re so hopeless. They sneer, I can’t help thinking. But are we going right?”
The darkness ahead stirred with tiny flames and exultant voices. Venice and Shirley!
“I say, lovely boat!” cried Shirley.
“Where, Shirley?” I called.
“Between you and me,” Iris whispered, “I wouldn’t mind sitting. Foot hurts. …”
“Come straight on. Don’t go right or left. River.”
“It’s not a boat at all!” cried Venice. “It’s a lovely motor-canoe. Oh, chaps!”
“Ssh!” Guy’s voice.
Who cared? Not Shirley. “And cushions! And steering-wheel! And everything. …”
“Naps, this way! Here you are! Isn’t it a beauty?”
“Hope no one gets drowned,” Iris whispered.
“Everyone’s cold sober.”
“But weeds and cramps and things. …”
“And currents,” came Guy’s murmur from somewhere just above our heads. “But it’s safe as houses as long as we keep in a line between this bank and the other. Had inquiries made today.”
“Sensible Guy!”
“Best way to mend things is to stop them, Iris.”
Our eyes pricked by the wicked little match-lights, we could just make out at our feet the shape of a long motor-canoe and, at one end of it, a jumble of figures. They seemed to be fighting, those figures, bent this way and that in heroic attitudes. The canoe twisted and rocked frantically on its moorings. Fierce whispers, wicked words. …
“Steady a moment,” said Guy, just beside us. But they weren’t steady any moments, Venice and Shirley and Hugo, whilst Napier helped them by getting in their way. They were up to something, those frantic figures.
“Steady, I said!” said Guy sharply. That learnt them. Someone in the boat lit a match, and the water shone like black silk. I saw Napier’s white face looking towards us, white face, dark eyes. Love-lost, dreaming. …
“Now look here,” said Guy gently. “Just leave those sickening ropes alone. You, Venice, you!”
“But, Guy! We must get—”
“Must nothing. It’s not our boat, Venice, and I never break more than one law a night.”
“But—Oh, damn the man!”
“Honest to God, Venice. Now, Shirley, behave yourself! We’ll sit in the wretched boat, but no more. And the river just here is safe. …”
“Look here,” said Hugo. “What about this for an idea? The women have one end of the boat and we the other?”
“And no matches to—”
“But where’s Iris?”
“Here,” came her voice, as though from the water. “In the middle of the boat. Very comfortable. Many cushions. I’ll take care of the boat while you swim. …”
“Isn’t she kind, our fast friend! I say, no matches to be struck until someone gives the word! My figure’s good, but even Reville doesn’t think it’s perfect. …”
“And better hand all your nasty bits of jewellery and watches to Iris.”
“ ’Ere’s towels,” said a miserable voice.
The
