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“You know,” said Simon, extracting a cigarette, “I dare say it’s just as well. We think we’re suited, but we probably aren’t. If we joined up, we should probably scrap like hell.”

“I doubt it,” said Patricia, slipping a bare arm through his. “You’ve got your faults, of course: and so have I. But they’re—they’re quite bearable, Simon.”

“It isn’t a question of faults,” said Simon slowly. “I love your faults, Pat.... It’s a question of temperament. You know. Everything in the garden looks lovely—so long as you’re outside. If we got in, it might be a very different shout. Supposing you didn’t like the colour of my vests.”

“I’m sure I should,” said Patricia solemnly. “And if I didn’t, they could easily be dyed.”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t want them dyed. You see? You’d say you couldn’t stick them, and I should retort that I had to wear the swine, an’ before we knew where we were we should be in over our knees.”

Patricia Bohun frowned.

“What colour are they?” she demanded.

“A warm biscuit,” said Simon.