“Come in the evening,” returned John.  “We won’t go home till morning.”

Kitty kissed her hand to him, and, during the pleased giggle that she gave, I saw her first taking in John and then Hortense.  Kitty was thinking, thinking, of John’s “crudity.”  And so I made a little experiment for myself.

“I wonder if men seem as similar in making love as women do in receiving it?”

“They aren’t!” shouted both John and Kitty, in the same indignant breath.  Their noise brought Bohm to listen to us.

This experiment was so much a success that I promptly made another for the special benefit of Bohm, Kitty’s next husband.  I find it often delightful to make a little gratuitous mischief, just to watch the victims.  I addressed Kitty.  “What would you do if a man said he could drown in your hair as joyfully as the Duke of Clarence did in his butt of Malmsey?”

“Why—­why—­” gasped Kitty, “why—­why—­”

I suppose it gave John time; but even so he was splendid.

“She has heard it said!” This was his triumphant shout.  I should not have supposed that Kitty could have turned any redder, but she did.  John buried his nose in his tall glass, and gulped a choking quantity of its contents, and mopped his face profusely; but little good that effected.  There sat this altogether innocent pair, deeply suffused with the crimson of apparent guilt, and there stood Kitty’s next husband, eyeing them suspiciously.  My little gratuitous mischief was a perfect success, and remains with me as one of the bright spots in this day of pleasure.

Vivacious measures from the piano brought Kitty to her feet.

“There’s Gazza!” she cried.  “We’ll make him sing!” And on the instant she was gone down the companionway.  Bohm followed her with a less agitated speed, and soon all were gone below, leaving John and me alone on the deck, sitting together in silence.

John lolled back in his chair, slowly sipping at his tall glass, and neither of us made any remark.  I think he wanted to ask me how I came to mention the Duke of Clarence; but I did not see how he very well could, and he certainly made no attempt to do so.  Thus did we sit for some time, hearing the piano and the company grow livelier and louder with solos, and choruses, and laughter.  By and by the shadow of the awning shifted, causing me to look up, when I saw the shores slowly changing; the tide had turned, and was beginning to run out.  Land and water lay in immense peace; the long, white, silent picture of the town with its steeples on the one hand, and on the other the long, low shore, and the trees behind.  Into this rose the high voice of Gazza, singing in broken English, “Razzla-dazzla, razzla-dazzla,” while his hearers beat upon glasses with spoons—­at least so I conjectured.

“Aren’t you coming, John?” asked Hortense, appearing at the companionway.  She looked very bacchanalian.  Her splendid amber hair was half riotous, and I was reminded of the toboggan fire-escape.