‘Good night.’
Ten minutes later Ravelston rode southwards in a taxi, with Hermione. She had been waiting for him, asleep or half asleep in one of the monstrous armchairs in front of the sitting-room fire. Whenever there was nothing particular to do, Hermione always fell asleep as promptly as an animal, and the more she slept the healthier she became. As he came across to her she woke and stretched herself with voluptuous, sleepy writhings, half smiling, half yawning up at him, one cheek and bare arm rosy in the firelight. Presently she mastered her yawns to greet him:
‘Hullo, Philip! Where have you been all this time? I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘Oh, I’ve been out with a fellow. Gordon Comstock. I don’t expect you know him. The poet.’
‘Poet! How much did he borrow off you?’
‘Nothing. He’
