And this boat had gone from Falmouth to St. Ives Bay, all round the coast. A larger boat, a ten-ton yacht, about the twentieth of June, properly fitted out, Durrant said . . .
"There's the cash difficulty," said Jacob.
"My people'll see to that," said Durrant (the son of a banker, deceased).
"I intend to preserve my economic independence," said Jacob stiffly. (He was getting excited.)
"My mother said something about going to Harrogate," he said with a little annoyance, feeling the pocket where he kept his letters.
"Was that true about your uncle becoming a Mohammedan?" asked Timmy Durrant.
Jacob had told the story of his Uncle Morty in Durrant's room the night before.
"I expect he's feeding the sharks, if the truth were known," said Jacob. "I say, Durrant, there's none left!" he exclaimed, crumpling the bag which had held the cherries, and throwing it into the river. He saw Lady Miller's picnic party on the island as he threw the bag into the river.
A sort of awkwardness, grumpiness, gloom came into his eyes.
"Shall we move on . . . this beastly crowd . . ." he said.
So up they went, past the island.
The feathery white moon never let the sky grow dark; all night the chestnut blossoms were white in the green; dim was the cow-parsley in the meadows.
The waiters at Trinity must have been shuffling china plates like cards, from the clatter that could be heard in the Great Court. Jacob's rooms, however, were in Neville's Court; at the top; so that reaching his door one went in a little out of breath; but he wasn't there. Dining in Hall, presumably. It will be quite dark in Neville's Court long before midnight, only the pillars opposite will always be white, and the
