It was a Christmas dinner. The table was already laid in their old room, when he threw open the door and ushered Jean in with a flourish.
"Merry Christmas."
He closed the door and would have taken Jean in his arms, but the look in her eyes stopped him.
"Why, Jean, what is it?"
For Jean stood staring at the table and fighting desperately not to cry.
"I—thought——"
Jean turned and buried her face on his shoulder.
"What is it, dear? Can't you tell me?"
Jean fought fiercely to stop, but she wanted to shriek, to laugh, to let down utterly, to sob out all the hurt, the suppression of the last ten months, close in Gregory's arms. And all the time, at the back of her brain, her burning eyes pressed into Gregory's coat, she saw the gay little table with the wine glasses and the white chrysanthemums and the ridiculous turkey, with the foolish paper frills about its brown legs.
Gregory held her gently, stroking her hair and wondering what had happened. For he had expected Jean to be as surprised and delighted as he had been when the idea occurred to him.