more out. But as I came up I'm sure I felt Potiphar!" And down
he dived again.

Potiphar was a finely modelled bull with a suede skin, rough
and comfortable and warm in bed. He was my own special joy and
pride, and I thrilled with honest emotion when Potiphar emerged
to light once more, stout-necked and stalwart as ever.

"That'll have to do," said Charlotte, getting up. "We dursn't
take any more, 'cos we'll be found out if we do. Make the box
all right, and bring 'em along."

Harold rammed down the wads of paper and twists of straw he had
disturbed, replaced the lid squarely and innocently, and picked
up his small salvage; and we sneaked off for the window most
generally in use for prison-breakings and nocturnal escapades. A
few seconds later and we were hurrying silently in single file
along the dark edge of the lawn.

Oh, the riot, the clamour, the crowding chorus, of all silent
things that spoke by scent and colour and budding thrust and
foison, that moonlit night of June! Under the laurel-shade all
was still ghostly enough, brigand-haunted, crackling, whispering
of night and all its possibilities of terror. But the open
garden, when once we were in it--how it turned a glad new face to
welcome us, glad as of old when the sunlight raked and searched
it, new with the unfamiliar night-aspect that yet welcomed us as
guests to a hall where the horns blew up to a new, strange
banquet! Was this the same grass, could these be the same
familiar flower-beds, alleys, clumps of verdure, patches of