“Be a sort of family party, I thought. Hugo and Shirley, Napier and Venice, some clean and wholesome young woman I’ll find for you, while I, thank the Lord, will be odd man out. But as to _where_ we should dine....” “In this heat....” “God, yes, too hot for dancing. Just listen to them upstairs! Even the ceiling’s sweating....” The faint, slow lilt of the tango, pleasantest of all dances but one that is so seldom danced in London because nobody in London can dance it, which seems a pity.... “Might almost dine here,” Guy murmured, “if Moira doesn’t want the place. And we might, now you’ve suggested it, and if it’s still so hot, go and bathe somewhere afterwards instead of sitting up in some stuffy place till all hours. See how we feel about it, and if Venice would enjoy that....” “Imagine Venice not enjoying that!” “Well, we’ll see,” said Guy, but more seriously now. “If we do, it will mean no cocktails before dinner, no more than a glass of wine apiece over dinner, and not a thimbleful after. I’m not going to have that river play any more tricks on my friends, I can tell you.” “And decency, Guy, will be more than served, for there’s no moon and the nights are pitch-black....” “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....” “All right, if she should give me a ring. Good-night, Guy.” “Good-night, boy. Sorry about the squash. Sickening. My idea, tell her.” As I looked back from that wide corner of Belgrave Square which sweeps suavely up to Hyde Park Corner, I could see the very tall figure of the friend of his friends still framed against the lighted doorway. Across the four open windows above him figures passed slowly.