Iris’s eyes were as though transfixed over the taut old gentleman’s shoulder. Iris’s eyes were on Venice. Napier had touched Venice’s hand, and somehow as he had made to kiss her cheek she had started back frantically ... and had instantly smiled ... brightly. Iris’s eyes seemed to dilate. Then she took Sir Maurice’s hand. “Thank you, Maurice. But it is Venice who is good. Venice is good. Good-bye.”
They went silently. For a second the green hat flamed in the mist of the light that fell on the lawn, and then the green hat was gone. I stared out into the garden.
I remember a “hm” just at the very moment when behind me there was a thud of some one falling, and Guy’s murmur: “Hand me that brandy, Maurice.”
Venice sat very erect in a great leather armchair. Her eyes were closed.
Sir Maurice darted about. He waved at me that black ebony paper-knife. He smiled that ancient smile. “Boy, we shouldn’t make hard-and-fast rules for any one but ourselves. And not even for ourselves. Leads to no good....”
“She’s all right,” Guy murmured to Hilary. De Travest was one of those men who always know how to deal with any physical emergency. He knew tricks....
“Poor child, poor child!” sighed Sir Maurice.
“She’s all right now,” said Hilary. He was very white and young-looking, Hilary. Oh, the hm’s that dropped from Hilary that night!
It was Guy’s face that Venice saw when she opened her eyes. Suddenly, she was crimson.
“Your first words should be,” Guy smiled, “‘Where am I?’ I may or may not tell you.”