He took from his pocket the Hottentot Venus and contemplated her severely. "I don't know which of you is worse, darling," he said. "You or Mlle Ducher. What are you at, anyway? Lord, I wouldn't have thought she had anything to do with palæolithic dolls! What's the connection, darling?" The Hottentot Venus was naturally silent.
Reggie sighed and put her away, and began to contemplate the beauties of nature. Tormouth, you know, is placed upon an agreeable bay, its sanda are white, and its headlands of a dark rock which in a flood of sunshine discover gleams of crystal amid a reddish glow. So Reggie saw them as the western sky grew crimson and the flood-tide sparkled in a thousand golden jewels. A delectable scene. It was laborious to go on thinking. Tormouth is an anchorage favoured by yachts, and though it was early summer two or three white craft lay out in the bay. Reggie went into his room and came out again to the balcony with a binocular. The influence of the evening was upon him and he felt a need of futile diversion. He focused the glasses upon the yachts. There was a big schooner and two steam-boats—one a small packet with the white ensign of the R.Y.S., the other a big craft under the Italian flag. He could not make out the names.
A waiter came to take his tea away. "I want the local paper. And do you keep Shearn's Yacht List?"
Both were brought. The yachts in Tormouth Bay
