I remember thinking just then that I mustn’t forget to thank her for that beautiful notepaper, and also to ask her what was that last word in her note.
“I’ve got an idea,” Hilary was saying, in the specially detached voice he keeps for ideas, “that now we are in this foul night-club we might as well do a bit of good. There’s old Pollen upstairs, and we might ... hm, well, perhaps not.”
“Perhaps not what, Hilary?”
“Hm. I was thinking of Eve seeing the thing in to-morrow morning’s papers. She only reads one wretched picture-paper, and that’s Pollen’s, so I thought, hm, that if we asked him not to....”
“Eve, the poor darling!” Iris whispered. We seemed to be in a desert, three shadows of men, three shadows of voices, and Iris, very white and alight. That is how I always remember her, alight.
“No good, Hilary,” Guy was murmuring. “He won’t, because it’s what those fellows call News. And if you try you will only upset young Venice and make her perhaps feel she’s in the other camp, rather the wrong camp for her, she might think, and just as she’s marrying Naps. She’s a good girl, loyal as anything to her father—and he’s a good fellow enough, but he’s got a queer complaint called Consistency. It’s something you make money out of, I think. I know him very well, as I’ve blackballed him from three clubs. My God, ever seen the man’s jaw?”
“She’s lovely, I thought,” Iris said.
“Good girl, Venice....”
“Hell ...” said Iris suddenly, breathlessly.
“What?” Hilary jumped.