“I am terrified,” said Iris desperately. “Terrified of masses of water. Once, in the Black Sea of all places, I got cramp, and ever since....” “If you only knew,” sighed Hugo, “how cold all that leaves us! You’ll swim, girl. Good for you. Make your coat shine. Give you back your lost youth.” “Hugo, don’t be so tactless!” cried Shirley. “The girl’s right,” Guy closed the discussion. “She’s only been out of bed about a month....” “But I haven’t been near mine for longer than that!” cried Shirley inevitably, and it was just at that moment, under cover of it, that I touched the ice-cold hand. That was the only sign until we reached the river that Venice’s married life had tumbled like a house of cards about her heart, that and her “trusting” Iris. Venice was saying: “And didn’t we just have some trouble with you, Mrs. Storm, when you were ill in Paris! Naps white in the face thinking you were going to die, me green in the face thinking my holiday would be spoilt if you did, this he-man here purple in the face telling me to be reasonable....” “But you were in bed for ages, weren’t you?” said Shirley sympathetically. “What was it? Some foul plague?” “Ptomaine poisoning,” said Napier, and as I was giving Venice a light with which to torture yet another cigarette my hand happened to touch hers. “In this heat!” said I. “Shut up, you fool!” she whispered desperately, and then she tried not to smile frantically, whispering: “Darling, darling, _darling_! My one friend....” “Venice, they’re never any real good, friends. They can’t _do_ anything....” “I know. Oh, I know. Oh God, I know!... Mrs. Storm, what a divine lip-stick! May I see? May I use?” Baby. II Thus, the children’s party....