"Oh, very fine," said Pamela, stifling a yawn, and glancing sideways at a group of her guests dimly seen in a corner of the garden, but happy, to judge from the laughter that came from them.
"Are the Napiers back in England yet?"
"No, they are still in Paris."
"What on earth do they want staying there for so long? it must be empty now."
"Yes, it was emptying fast when we left, wasn't a soul left scarcely. Do you know, I have a great mind to run over to Ostend for a few weeks. The Napiers are going there; it's rather fun, I believe."
"I wouldn't. What's the good of going to these foreign places? stay here."
Pamela was silent, and the inspiriting dialogue ceased.
A great beetle moving through the night across the garden filled the air with its boom. The group in the corner of the garden still were laughing and talking; amidst their voices could be distinguished that of Hamilton-Cox. Mr Cox had not a pleasant voice; it was too highly pitched, and it jarred on the ear of Mr Bevan and on his soul. His soul was in an irritable mood. When we speak of the soul we refer to an unknown quantity, and when we speak of its condition we refer sometimes, perhaps, to just a touch of liver, or sometimes to an extra glass of champagne.
"I can't make out what induces you to surround yourself with those sort of people," said Mr Bevan, casting his cigar-end away and searching for his cigarette case.