Instead of moonlight, without, there swam the blue mist of dawn.
"Not a word must ever reach old Gilly," he mused.

"Do you hear, Nesbit ?" "If you think," retorted the clerk, stiffly, "I don't know the proper course of be'aviour! Not likely!" The tall silhouette in the window made no reply, but stood grumbling privately: "A club! Yes, where we drink out of jam-pots--dead cushions, dead balls--no veranda--fellow that soils the inside of his cuffs first! We're a pack of beach-combers." He propped his elbows on the long sill, and leaned out, venting fragments of disgust.

Then of a sudden he turned, and beckoned eagerly.
"Come here, you chaps.

Look-see." The others joined him.

Gray vapors from river and paddy-field, lingering like steam in a slow breeze, paled and dispersed in the growing light, as the new day, worse than the old, came sullenly without breath or respite.