eady commenced.

All the racing visitors were gathered in knots in the blue darkness;
companies of performers, niggers, German bands, and banjoists were
skimming along from house-boat to house-boat, making music to the guests
and indulging in mild badinage with each other. The moon peered out from
the heavens through a silvery haze, and one by one the timorous blinking
stars grew more audaciously golden as the night became darker.

On "The Raft" most of the company disposed themselves in groups, and
boisterously chorused the musical sentiments of a young man who had
boarded the boat to recite of love-making on modern methods. Lady
Rolleston, exhausted from the fatigue of entertaining the indefatigable
agriculturist, sat somewhat apart on a long cane chair. She fanned
herself, and from time to time applauded. It was a pleasure to
contemplate the boyish zest with which her husband led the roar. Song
after song followed, and then came a "breakdown" from a young "Middy,"
whose spirits were infectious. At last, when the rampage had almost
ceased, Harry Rolleston became aware of his wife's silence and exceeding
pallor.

"It's awfully late, we must be off, or we shall face daylight before we
know where we are."

Jovial farewells were exchanged, parting bets quoted, then the pair
descended into darkness.

The river was now almost deserted; its face like a black mirror giving
forth only exaggerated reflections of such illuminations as still glowed
along the length of the Reach. These, however, served well to steer by,
and they neared their own house-boat with little difficulty. Outside,
though the night was sultry, tiny breezes that came and went fanned the
skin like the breath of babes. Under the roof, however, not a whiff of
air could penetrate, and, within the room, the atmosphere seemed hot and
asphyxiating.

Maud Rolleston, as she threw off her gown, complained.

"The air here is stifling, I should like to sleep on deck."

"Impossible," her husband said, "you would have the sun routing you in
an hour or two."

"Then we must keep the door open. I don't suppose there are burglars
about."

"Burglars? I'd like to catch them--but damp--one can't fight that."

"It is too hot to be damp," she asserted, laying a hand on the frilled
pillows of her tiny bunk.

"But dangerous mists rise up from the river," he argued, warningly.

"I am not afraid of mists," she said, and in her long silk bedgown she
tripped to the oute