"I wanted to get away before I—before I made a bally fool of myself and now—and now I've done it. Are you aware," she demanded abruptly, "that it's horribly late?"
Lionel struck his repeater. The tiny chimes clinged the hours and quarters against his right and Kate's left ear. They counted nine and three-quarters.
Kate straightened up and began smoothing her hair. "We must be getting back," she said.
Then an inspiration came to Lionel, born of romantic literature. "I say, Kate, I—er—I wish we could count all our hours that way."
There was an agonizing pause.
"It would be economical," she mused, "to make one watch do for two people."
"Oh, I say, you know what I mean, Kate," he went on desperately, "get married and all that sort of thing. I know an awfully jolly little farm down in Kent, only forty pounds a year."
"Yes? And what would we live on?"
"Why, we'd keep a cow—and a hen—and a bee—and all that sort of thing."
"A bee?" Kate burst out laughing, then, suddenly, dropping her bantering tone, she cuddled her firm white hands into Lionel's big brown ones.