alone.” Dane, who had lain for some minutes without smoking, lit himself another cigarette.
“Women are a pest,” went on Roger, with an air of profundity that amused his host.
“Then keep away from them.”
“Well, I can’t. I like them, I like their company.”
“H’m! That’s the one thing about them I like least. They don’t understand company. They ruin it and love and scenery and music, and everything worth having, with their infernal chatter. It’s an eternal mystery to me that men don’t strangle women in the night. I sigh for the good old days when they did it. The best women could ever do for me was to give me physical rest, and God knows I have wanted a lot more than that from them. And they don’t even understand sense. They do understand suggestion and stimulation, but they fall short when it comes to satisfying what they have aroused. And they can’t make a fine art of love. They can only be sentimental or sacrificial about it, and eternally remind you afterwards that they have given you everything. They have no honour in love.” He stopped abruptly. He had surprised Roger by this outburst.
“I guess you are harder to please than I am,” he said.
Caruso’s voice, vibrant with the passion of an Italian love song, rang out from the room further down and was smothered in the heavy silence of the garden. Dane threw one hand across his face. He did not want to talk any more. Roger sat till another record was played then he stood up.
“I must be getting along, Barrington.”
Dane roused himself and swung out of his hammock. Stretching himself, he looked up at the soft stars.
“God! What a lovely night! You will have a fine ride," he said.
