"Can't I? I am 'in the mood' now, Monty!" she said, very softly. "Believe me!"
And her long arm was flung, gently and carefully, about her soldier's neck; her lips were close to his.
When at last she left her lover, Leslie Long walked down the darkened streets near Victoria, quietly and meditatively. And her thoughts were only partly with the man whom she had left so happy. Partly they were claimed by the girl-friend whose marriage morning wish had been for her, Leslie, to be happy in the same way.
It seemed to Leslie that she was very near her now.
Even as she walked along the tall girl was conscious, in a way not to be described, of a Presence that seemed to follow her and to beset her and to surround her with a sense of loving, laughing, girlish pleasure and fellowship. She saw, without seeing, the small, eager, tip-tilted face with bright eyes of river-green and brown, crowned by the wreath of short, thick curls. Without hearing, she caught the tone of the soft, un-English, delighted voice that cried, "Oh, Les—lie——!"
"Little Taffy! She'd be so full of it, of course.... Of course she'd be glad! Of course she'd know; I can't think she doesn't. Not she, who was so much in love herself," mused Leslie, putting up her hand with her characteristic gesture to tuck in the stray tress of black hair that had come loose under her trim velvet cap.
"And the people we've loved can't forget at once, as soon as they've left us. I don't believe that. She knows. If I could only say something—send some sort of message! Even if it were only like waving a hand! If I could make some sign that I shall always care——"
As she thought of it she was passing a row of shops. The subdued light from one of them fell upon swinging garlands of greenery festooned outside; decorations ready for Christmas.
On an impulse Leslie Long turned into this florist's shop. "I want one of those wreaths you have, please," she said.