journeys that you gay bachelors can indulge in.'

'But I'm not a gay bachelor. My boy is coming to join me in the summer
holidays, wherever I am,' said Aylmer.

'Ah, but that's not the point. I should like to go with you now--at
once. Don't you wish we were both going, Edith? Why aren't we going
with him tomorrow?'

'Surely June's just the nice time in London, Bruce,' said Vincy, in his
demure voice.

'Won't it be terribly hot?' said Lady Everard vaguely. She always
thought every place must be terribly hot. 'Venice? Are you going to
Venice? Delightful! The Viennese are so charming, and the Austrian
officers--Oh, you're going to Sicily first? Far too hot. Paul La
France--the young singer, you know--told me that when he was in Sicily
his voice completely altered; the heat quite affected the _velouté_ of
his voice, as the French call it--and what a voice it is at its best!
It's not the _highest_ tenor, of course, but the medium is so
wonderfully soft and well developed. I don't say for a moment that he
will ever be a Caruso, but as far as he goes--and he goes pretty far,
mind--it's really wonderful. You're coming on Wednesday, aren't you,
dear Mrs Ottley? Ah!'... She stopped and held up her small beaded fan,
'what's that the band's playing? I know it so well; everyone knows it;
it's either _Pagliacci_ or _Bohème_, or _some_thing. No, isn't it
really? What is it? All the old Italian operas are coming in again, by
the way, you know, my dear... _Rigoletto_, _Lucia_, _Traviata_--the
_bel canto_--that sort of thing; there's nothing like it for showing
off the voice. Wagner's practically gone out (at least what _I_ call