Iris called to me for a cigarette. It was her right hand to which I gave it. It seemed very naked, that right hand. “Your ring, Iris?” “In the Thames,” she whispered. “Fallen for ever! Not a word....” Venice was explaining to the darkness, gulping lavishly at her champagne: “Thought I’d go for a swim and not just paddle about. Thought I’d be clever. Thought you were fools. Thought I’d thought right. Thought I’d--anyhow, I caught my head crack (a) on that bridge. And then I didn’t want to let out a yell about nothing and look a silly ass. Heard you calling me, but thought I’d better keep my breath for swimming. Began swimming, and got a weed like a wrestler’s torso round me. Head hurt, like hell it did. Thinks I, now for a yell, but began kicking instead----” “You would!” “Wait. And my head hurt. And I was frightened to death. And I prayed like fury. Naps! Where’s Naps? I missed you. And when I wanted to yell all I could let out was a miow. And Mrs. Storm--well, Iris, as she saved my life, cries out: ‘Oi, what’s that? Who? Where?’ And before you could say knife, and just as I was succumbing to a watery grave, she was saving my life, quick as you like. Quick, terse stuff. She could swim all of us off our feet, she could....” “Get very easily tired,” Iris said. “Iris!” Napier’s voice, sharp. “You dressed? What? Risky for you, messing about, after your illness.” “I’m almost ready, Napier.” Impatient, Iris’s voice was, I thought. “Naps, get a rug from the car. She’s shivering.” “Please!” Iris whispered, frantically, desperately. “For pity’s sake, please not!” Silence.... As we collected round the two motor-cars, Guy, fiddling about with his starting-arrangements, seemed, I thought, to be saying something. But he was only swearing. At the back of the Hispano Iris went to sleep against my shoulder. She spoke in her sleep: “You will find me quite light on you, as I haven’t got a chemise. They say it is very smart, to be chemiseless. Already I feel less of an outlaw from society. She did it on purpose.” “Iris!” “She did. Half on purpose. I know she did. The pet! Oh, dear....” “But, Iris, why?” “Because, dear. So that I should like her....” “Oh! Well, do you?” “Yes. Oh, yes.” “Well?” “I’m sorry if my hair is tickling your face.” “Well, now you like her, does it make any difference?” “No. Oh, no.” “Oh!” “Good-night.” THE LAST CHAPTER: ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND! I