"Then they'll envy me more than ever," said Phyllida with a contented laugh. Vernon pressed her hand and looked round quickly as a man will before he attempts the first kiss. But Phyllida drew back.
"What shall we do when we are tired of sitting at the windows—if one could ever tire of anything so pleasant," she added with a sigh.
"We'll call a hackney-coach and drive to Westminster Steps, to the river."
"To the river? Now that will be most diverting."
"And we'll hail the waterman with the most elegant wherry, and row up through the dusk to Vauxhall."
Phyllida was staring at him with the round eyes of a child who listens to an old fairy-tale.
"Then what should we do?" she asked earnestly.
"We should choose a box for two and sit with our elbows over a very small table and look at each other just as we are looking now."
"Yes! go on," cried Phyllida clapping her hands.
"Then we should call for chicken-wings and eat our supper and listen to the new song and the musick of the orchestra playing the finest tunes high up among a thousand sparkling coloured lamps and watch the masqueraders and row back to Westminster under a great moon."