Iris, a white face, gardenia-white, mocking hair, a barbaric scarf about her throat, her hat a splash of black against the frail fancy that was her dress, standing a little away, staring at the stars. “A light,” she murmured. “A light!” Then Napier was beside her, lighting her cigarette, lighting also the curious, still smile on his acolyte’s face, an enchanted smile, the smile of a man drowned in a magic pool. The collar of his white shirt was unbuttoned, the dark hair sleek in the glow of the flaming lights....
“Naps, give me a light, too.”
“Here you are, Venice,” said Hugo.
“Oh, it’s gone out! Naps, a light!”
“Sorry, Venice....”
Guy seemed to be shaking hands with the man in shirt-sleeves.
“Get you some towels,” said he, moving off.
Hugo whispered: “One law for the rich, one for the poor. Dear me!”
“Sickening. But we may as well take advantage of what’s left of it. Getting a bit mouldy, that law.”
“Come on, Hugo. God, it’s dark! Which way is it? We must find a boat....”