To see a forewarned philosopher lured to try the swim on those tides, pulled along the current, and caught by the undertug of the lasher, would be fun.
'We'll drop down on them, find our hotel, and have a look at what they're doing,' he said, and stepped.
Woodseer would gladly have remained.

The starlit black ridges about him and the dragon's mouth yawing underneath were an opposition of spiritual and mundane; innocent, noxious; exciting to the youthful philosopher.

He had to follow, and so rapidly in the darkness that he stumbled and fell on an arm; a small matter.
Bed-chambers awaited them at the hotel, none of the party: and Fleetwood's man-servant was absent.
'Gambling, the rascal!' he said.

Woodseer heard the first note of the place in that.
His leader was washed, neatly dressed, and knocking at his door very soon, impatient to be off, and he flung a promise of 'supper presently' to one whose modest purse had fallen into a debate with this lordly hostelry, counting that a supper and a night there would do for it.

They hurried on to the line of promenaders, a river of cross-currents by the side of seated groups; and the willowy swish of silken dresses, feminine perfumery, cigar-smoke, chatter, laughter, told of pleasure reigning.
Fleetwood scanned the groups.