“After you've dined with us—say the day after tomorrow.”
“Right you are. Delighted—. Let me look if that water's boiling.” He got up and poked half himself inside the bedroom. “Not yet. Damned filthy methylated spirit they sell.”
“Look,” said Lilly. “There's Del Torre!”
“Like some sort of midge, in that damned grey-and-yellow uniform. I can't stand it, I tell you. I can't stand the sight of any more of these uniforms. Like a blight on the human landscape. Like a blight. Like green-flies on rose-trees, smother-flies. Europe's got the smother-fly in these infernal shoddy militarists.”
“Del Torre's coming out of it as soon as he can,” said Lilly.
“I should think so, too.”
“I like him myself—very much. Look, he's seen us! He wants to come up, Argyle.”
“What, in that uniform! I'll see him in his grandmother's crinoline first.”
“Don't be fanatical, it's bad taste. Let him come up a minute.”
“Not for my sake. But for yours, he shall,” Argyle stood at the parapet of the balcony and waved his arm. “Yes, come up,” he said, “come up, you little mistkafer—what the Americans call a bug. Come up and be damned.”