"Come home and have some supper. I've just remembered that I told François I was bringing a couple of men home—told him early this morning."
She hesitated. "I can't stay very long," she said. "No—nobody is waiting up for me. My maid never does—it spoils my enjoyment of a dance if I think that I am keeping some poor girl out of her bed. I'll come in for five minutes, dear."
His arm came round her, her head drooped toward him. "Ronnie—I'm so glad all this has come about, darling—I've run after you—I know I have. But I don't care—four years seems such an awful long time to wait."
"An eternity," he breathed.
"And marriage is, as you say—in your immoral way—only a third party sanction—it is silly." He kissed her. An automatic lift carried them to the third floor and Ronnie went in switching on the lights.
"I wonder whether father will be angry," she asked, "if your man—"
"He sleeps out," Ronnie helped her off with her wrap. "He's never here after nine. This is my own room, Beryl—but you saw it when the doctor brought you here to dinner."
She walked over to the big black table and sat down.
"Here genius broods," she laughed quietly, "what a humbug you are, Ronnie! I don't believe you write a thousand words a month!"
He smiled indulgently.