"London's a much wickeder city than Paris," said Jack, addressing the air like some pontiff of vice. "I like these November nights with shapes of women looming up through the fog. A friend of mine----" As Jack Danby descended to personal reminiscence, he lost his sinister power and became mean and common. "When I say friend--I should say business friend, eh, Arthur?" he asked, smiling on the side of his face nearer to his brother. "Well, he's a lord as a matter of fact," he continued in accents of studied indifference. "Tell the girls about him," urged his brother, and "Fill up your glasses," he murmured as, leaning back in his chair, he seemed to fade away into clouds of smoke blown from a very long, thin and black cigar. "This lord--I won't tell you his name----" said Jack, "he wanders about in fogs until he meets a shape that attracts him. Then he hands her a velvet mask, and takes her home. What an imagination," chuckled the narrator. "Well, I call him a dirty rotter," said Jenny. "Do you?" asked Jack, as if struck by the novelty of such a point of view. The lights were being extinguished now. The quenching of the orange illumination, and the barren waste of empty tables gave the grill-room a raffish look which consorted well with the personalities of the two brothers. The party broke up in the abrupt fashion of England, and within a few minutes of sitting comfortably round a richly lighted supper-table, the two girls were seated in a dark taxi on the way to Camden Town. "How do you like Jack Danby?" Irene inquired. "He's all right. Only I don't know--I think if I'd met him last year I'd have thought him a swine. I think I must be turning funny. What are they--these long friends of yours?" she added, after a pause. "What do they do in Paris?" "They bring out books," Irene informed her. "Books?" echoed Jenny. "What sort of books?" "Ordinary books, I suppose," said Irene, slightly huffed by Jenny's contemptuous incredulity. "Well, what do they want to live in Paris for, if they're ordinary books?" "That's where their business is." "Funny place to do a business in ordinary books." "I don't see why." "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. But _I_ think it's funny, that's all. You _are_ deep, Irene." "Oh, yes," said Irene, looking out of the window at the waves of light that broke against the window with each passing street lamp. "You always say that, but I'm not near so deep as what you are." "Yes, you are, because I'm always catching you out in a lie _which_ you don't me." "No, because I'm not so nosy." "Now don't be silly and get in a paddy about nothing," Jenny advised. "You can't help having funny friends. Only what I can't understand is myself. I think they're both beasts, and yet I'd like to see them again. That's where I'm funny, I think." Irene assumed an attitude of lofty indifference.