Forever is Not So Long

Given that much-sought knowledge of the future, how many would have courage to enjoy what life was to be theirs?
September, 1931.
The lights of Europe still burned.
The black hulk of Ploving Manor was broken by the squares of brilliant, friendly light from its many windows that gave the old country seat almost a cheerful aspect. From the stone terrace to the south of Professor Ploving's study long strings of bobbing, soft-glowing lanterns stretched across the close-cropped lawn to the dark outline of the orchard. Beyond the orchard was the pounding beat of the Channel.
On a platform under the lights young men and young women danced to the strange new throbbing music from the Americas. It was a pulsing tom-tom beat, that music, that called for a measure of gay abandon and a great deal of muscular dexterity. But not quite the same sort of abandon that their mothers and father had known. For those lovely women at the terrace tables and the gray-templed men at their sides had been the fabulous, almost forgotten lost generation of an almost forgotten post-war period. These youngsters dancing under the English stars and pressing hands in the orchard's shadow were the fortunate chosen ones who would build at last the brave new world that had been their fathers' dream.
Stephen Darville stood in the shadows of a great clump of rhododendrons at the terrace edge watching the swirl of color on the lawn, his eyes searching the laughing crowd for a sight of Jean. His eyes found her and followed her across the lawn. When she came near he called her name.
She hurried to him and took his hands in a friendly tug.
One dance together, Steve, before you go out to the workshop.
He shook his head.
Just one, she pleaded.
He pressed her hands, watching the way the stiff sea breeze ruffled the gay silk kerchief at her throat.
There's no time. Your father's waiting for me now.