bowels calmly: even with a certain thrill. The young hero! But there were dark rings round his eyes, like a debauch.
“Oh but!” he began, making a rather coy face. “Don’t you want to hear what I did after! I went to the hotel of the chief toreador, and saw him lying on his bed all dressed up, smoking a fat cigar. Rather like a male Venus who is never undressed. So funny!”
“Who took you there?” she said.
“That Pole, you remember?—and a Spaniard who talked English. The toreador was great, lying on his bed in all his get-up, except his shoes, and quite a crowd of men going over it all again—wawawawawa!—you never heard such a row!”
“Aren’t you wet?” said Kate.
“No, not at all. I’m perfectly dry. You see I had my coat. Only my head, of course. My poor hair was all streaked down my face like streaks of dye.” He wiped his thin hair across his head with rather self-conscious humour. “Hasn’t Owen come in?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s changing.”
“Well I’ll go up. I suppose it’s nearly supper time. Oh yes, it’s after!” At which discovery he brightened as if he’d received a gift.
“Oh by the way, how did you get on? Rather mean of us to let you go all alone like that,” he said, as he hung poised in the open doorway.
“Not at all,” she said. “You wanted to stay. And I can look after myself, at my time of life.”
“We-ell!” he said, with an American drawl. “Maybe you