she seemed to be in a perfect panic of fear. Nothing would satisfy her but that she should, with the greatest possible expedition, shake from her feet the dust of the Water Lily. When we were quit of her I looked at Violet and Violet looked at me. I laughed. I will not go so far as to say that I laughed genially; still, I laughed.
"We seem to be in for a pleasant river holiday."
"Eric, let us get outside."
We went on deck. The sun had already set. There was no moon, but there was a cloudless sky. The air was languorous and heavy. Boats were stealing over the waters. Someone in the distance was playing a banjo accompaniment while a clear girlish voice was singing "The Garden of Sleep." The other houseboats were radiant with Chinese lanterns. The Water Lily alone was still in shadow. We drew our deck-chairs close together. Violet's hand stole into mine.
"Eric, do you know that last night I, too, heard voices?"
"You!" I laughed again. "Violet!"
"I couldn't make it out at all. I was just going to wake you when they were still."
"You were dreaming, child. Inglis's story — confound him and his story! — has recalled your dream to mind. I hope you don't wish to follow Mason's example, and make a bolt of it. I have paid pretty stiffly for the honour of being the Water Lily tenant for a month, not to mention the fact of disarranging all our plans."
Violet paused before she answered.
"No; I don't think I want, as you say, to make
