We were passing by the great gates of Devonshire House that now more becomingly adorn the Green Park when Hilary muttered “Bed-time” and left us, crossing towards Half-Moon Street. I found myself walking on with Guy, despite the economy in walking I might have made by going with Hilary, for my flat also lay in that direction. But I might cut up Down Street. Guy said, as though for some minutes past he had been giving his whole mind to the matter: “Not bad weather, really, if one was dressed for it....”
“If!” I said.
“Of course,” said Guy, “these infernal stiff shirts....”
“Although,” said Guy, “I think they’re cooler than those sickening soft things....”
“I’m wearing one,” I said.
“I said what I said,” said Guy.
Once upon a time, as he had stood at the foot of her bed in a dim room, Iris had called him by a name that was not his name. “But Guy would defend a secret not only against the angels of God but also against himself.” Yes, Iris, yes ... but was it necessary, Iris, to remind him of it? For Napier was Guy de Travest’s friend, and as dear to him as a younger brother.
“To swim,” Guy murmured from deep reflection, “would be very pleasant just now. Very pleasant indeed.”
“Yes. But where? I’m not for the Loyalty, in water debauched by face-powder....”