ed old water rat regarded the
subsequent proceedings with a tolerant eye.

"More of 'em at it, my dear," he told his spouse, in his fastness under
a gnarled tree root. "However, there's no objection to the children
having a look if it amuses them." He cast a discriminating eye round
the larder, and frowned heavily. "Hell! you don't mean to say that
we've got that damned ham bone again," he growled. "However, we ought
to pick up something when they've finished the exhibition and get down
to their lunch. . . ." He thoughtfully pulled his left whisker. "And
by the way, my love, tell Jane not to go wandering about this
afternoon, even if she is in love. There's an abominable dog of the
most dangerous description on the warpath. Let me know when those
fools stop."

He composed himself for a nap, and the wash of a passing launch which
flopped against the punt outside lulled him to sleep. . . . He was a
prosaic old gentleman, that water rat, so his peevishness may be
forgiven him. After all, a ham bone is a ham bone and pretty poor at
that, and when one has been the father of several hundreds, the
romantic side of life pales considerably in the light of the
possibilities of lunch.

But up above, in the punt, the fools were busy according to their
foolishness, quite unmindful of their disapproving audience. Maybe it
is dangerous to try to cheat reality; but success justifies any
experiment. And the day was successful beyond their wildest dreams.
Binks grubbed about in the bank and incidentally gave the love-sick
Jane the fright of her young life; until at last, tired and dirty and
happy, he lay down on the grass just above Vane's head, and went on
hunting in his dreams. . . .

As for the two chief fools, the day passed as such days have always
passed since Time began. And the absolute happiness which comes with
the sudden touch of a hand, the quick, unexpected glance, the long,
passionate kiss, is not to be put on paper. They talked a little about
aimless, intimate things; they were silent a great deal--those
wonderful silences which become possible only with perfect
understanding. And gradually the shadows lengthened, and the grey
water began to grow darker. . . . Sometimes from the old bridge came
the noise of a passing car, and once an electric canoe went past them
in the main stream, with a gramophone playing on board. The sound of
the record came to them clearly over the water--the Barcarolle from
"L