“Pat, this isn’t like you. We must keep troth. If we didn’t end it to-night and go down smiling, we should spoil everything. Together we planted the prettiest little flower: and it’s grown so lovely, Pat, and smelled so very sweet: and now—it’s time to pick it. . . . Well, we must pick it properly—not drag it up piecemeal. And then—for ever, think what a memory we’ll have—that we weren’t afraid to pick our pretty flower . . . when it was in full bloom. We’ll be so proud and happy to remember that. It won’t have faded or died. It’ll ’ve been just perfect—all the time. . . . And we must pick it smiling, Pat—just for each other’s sake.”
“Oh, Simon, Simon, I shall break. It’s like Death. I can’t face it.”
“You can with me. We can face anything. What’s death to us, so long as we go out well?”
Patricia lifted her head.
“You’re right,” she said quietly. “We—we must go out well.” For a moment her eyes wandered over the heaven. Then they returned to his. She put up a little hand and touched his hair, setting it back from his temples and patting it as she pleased. Then she smiled very tenderly. “Let’s pick our flower now, darling.”
The man smiled back.
For a minute they kissed and clung—while the world rocked. . . . Then he loosened his hold, and she fell away.
He picked up her hand and kissed her finger-tips.
“My beautiful darling,” he said. “My sweet, my sweet.”
Then he leaned back against the stone-work and took out a cigarette.