The pretty scene concluded with a violent struggle from which the lady emerged with a torn dress—a mishap which occasioned shrieks of laughter and a volley of innuendo.
The four departed hilariously in search of champagne. . . .
“D’you like all this?” said Nicholas. “I don’t mean the scene we’ve just witnessed, but the manners of which it’s the fruit.”
“What d’you think?” said Miss Crail.
“I think you hate it. I think you like gaiety, and as this is the only sort going you make the best of it.”
“You’re wrong,” said the girl. “I could live on a desert island and be completely happy.”
“Then why do you stay here?”
“Well, for one thing, I haven’t an island. Secondly, I haven’t any money. I live with an aunt, who keeps me and is at present on a yacht. When I saw the passenger-list, I begged to be excused. So I’ve been left here till she returns. If I’d the nerve, I’ld strike out a line for myself, but I’ve always lived soft and I can’t type a letter, so what can I do?”
Kilmuir regarded the end of his cigarette.
“How long have you done this?” he said.