"To the Turkish lanterns and Japanese wind-bells!"
And Rachael. Should she say it? It was such a long, long time ago. Jean did not know whether Gregory remembered that the night he had told her of Amos and the pergola, was the night they had gone to Rachael's. What a big thing it had seemed at the time and now it was so little. Was the course of all human relationships just that—a series of steps, from one desperate need, to a temporary peace, and then on to another need? Did one never come to a lasting peace, a flat, restful spot with no more steps? Or did one just step off at last into nothingness?
"What is it? Are you yearning for Japanese wind-bells and an electric pergola?"
"Was I looking like that?"
"Rather abstracted, Jeany. And——" Gregory was on the point of adding—"and this is our last night," but changed it. They both knew that well enough. So he said: "And besides it's rude."
"I was just wondering whether she has outgrown the pergola yet or whether Amos is still happy."
"I don't know. I saw in some paper not long ago that an English Duke was one of the guests on a yachting trip with Mr. and Mrs. Amos Palmer. From what I know of the Duke's reputation—Good-by wind-bells and maybe Amos."
They kept the talk at this level until they had almost finished dinner. Then, in spite of their efforts to hold the mood, it slipped from them. Brief silences fell, which were hastily dispelled as soon as either one could think of something to say, sufficiently unimportant. But they came again, until at last Jean made no effort to escape them, and Gregory sat rolling breadcrumbs in the old way and frowning into the tablecloth.
He did not know when he could come again. The months ahead were going to be busy ones and he would have to snatch an interlude when he could. And yet, going without the definite point of a return, left these days unfinished. He wished Jean would ask him.
But Jean said nothing. If Gregory knew he would tell her and if he did not know she did not want to be told that this, for which she would wait alone, week after week, as she had waited, was to be left to chance, thrust into an unfilled moment.