she ran into the hall, holding a box high in the air.
“A Lady with a Box of Sardines,” said Dennis gravely.
“Well, William, and how’s London?” asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out of a bottle of whisky.
“Oh, London’s not much changed,” answered William.
“Good old London,” said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine.
But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wondering what colour one’s legs really were under water.
“Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour.”
Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changed plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment she said, “I do wish, Bill, you’d paint it.”
“Paint what?” said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread.
“Us,” said Isabel, “round the table. It would be so fascinating in twenty years’ time.”
Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. “Light’s wrong,” he said rudely, “far too much yellow”; and went on eating. And that seemed to charm Isabel, too.
But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn until it was late enough to go to bed. . . .
