“That’s right,” said Guy thoughtfully, and then, as he saw me to the door, he said thoughtfully: “By the way, you any idea if Venice has ever met Iris?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But I’m not sure....”
There is never any harm in saying one isn’t sure. One should never be sure, conversationally.
“I just had an idea,” Guy murmured, looking out over the heavy trees of the great square, “that Iris might conceivably be passing through London, as I heard from Eve Chalice to-day that old Portairley was lying near death. The last Portairley, dear, dear.”
“Gerald won’t be sorry to have missed his turn, I’ve no doubt.”
“Poor young devil! But what I was thinking of was, just in case Iris is in London, that we might get her for the third woman to-morrow night....”
“Oh,” I said. “I see....”
“You’d quite like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, I’d like it!”
“Just had an idea,” Guy murmured vaguely, “that she and Venice might meet, if they haven’t already met, and see how they like each other. That is, if Iris is in London. Different types ... you never know. Tell Iris, if by any chance you hear anything of her to-morrow. My idea, tell her....”