She locked her bedroom door, for fear any of the servants should guess how she was occupied. She was filled with an exultant shame that she should still be capable of valuing so highly a man's opinion of her appearance. “But I will be happy,” she kept telling herself; “I have the right.” And then, in a whisper, “Oh, little house, you have been so kind. Wish me luck and say that he'll think me nice.”
Outside in the bare black cradle of the trees the November afternoon faded. Sparrows twittered of how winter was almost come. Against the cold melancholy of the London sky, like silhouettes crayoned on a wall of ice, roofs and chimneys stood smudged. In flickering pin-points of incandescence street-lamps wakened; night came drifting like a ship into harbour under shrouded sails.
She had been sitting listening for a long time, haunted by childish fears that he would not come. At seven promptly a taxi panted into the square and drew up wheezing and coughing before the little house. Seizing her evening-wrap, she ran down the stairs and had her hand on the door before his knock had sounded. “I didn't want to keep you waiting,” she explained.
He handed her into the cab. With a groan and a thump the engine pulled itself together and they made good their escape. As she settled back into her corner, pulling on her gloves, she watched him. So he also had regarded it as a gala-night! He was wearing a brand-new uniform and had been at extra pains to make his boots and belt splendid and shiny. She did her best not to be observed too closely, for her eyes were overbright and her color was high. She felt annoyed at herself for being so girlish.
“It's tremendous fun. I haven't been to the theatre in the evening since... for years and years,” she whispered. “The war is really ended. I'm believing it for the first time.”
They dined together at Prince's to the fierce discords of Jazz music. It suited her mood; it was primitive and reckless. Diners kept rising between courses and slipping out in pairs to where dancing was in progress. The whole world went in pairs tonight. And she had her man; no one could make her lonely for just this one night. It was exciting to her to notice how much more they seemed to belong to each other now that they were in public. He felt it also, for he showed his sense of pride and ownership in a hundred little ways. It was good to be owned after having been left so long discarded. As he faced her across the table, he had the air of believing that everybody was admiring her and envying him his luck. She was immensely grateful that he should think so. It was as though he could hear them saying, “How on earth did a one-armed fellow do it?” Had they asked him, he could only have told them, “The house was empty, so I entered.” Yes, and even he had not guessed how empty! But what had changed her? Knowing nothing about the locked door and how her afternoon had been spent, he was puzzled. All he knew was that the woman whom he had thought perfect, had revealed herself as more perfect. She had become radiantly beautiful in a way quite new and unexpected.
Of the play to which they went she saw but little; all she realised was that it was merry—a fairy-tale of life. One does not notice much when the heart is swollen with gladness. People sang, and looked pretty, and fell in love. Everyone was paired and married before the curtain was rung down. Something, however, she did remember: two lilting lines which had been sung: