And then of her own accord, she kissed him on the lips. . . .
It was Binks's expression, about a quarter of an hour later, which recalled them to earth again. With an air of pained disgust he regarded them stolidly for a few minutes. Then he had a good scratch on both sides of his neck, after which he yawned. He did not actually say "Pooh," but he looked it, and they both laughed.
"Dear man," she whispered, "wouldn't it be just too wonderful if it could always be just you and me and Binks? . . ."
"And why shouldn't it be, lady?" he answered, and his arm went round her waist. "Why shouldn't it be? We'll just sometimes have to see some horrible outsider, I suppose, and perhaps you or somebody will have to order food every year or so. . . . But except for that—why, we'll just slip down the stream all on our own, and there won't be a little bit of difficulty about keeping your eyes in the boat, grey girl. . . ."
She smiled—a quick, fleeting smile; and then she sighed.
"Life's hell, Derek—just hell, sometimes. And the little bits of
Heaven make the hell worse."
"Life's pretty much what we make it ourselves, dear," said Vane gravely.
"It isn't," she cried fiercely. "We're what life makes us. . . ."
Vane bent over and started pulling one of Binks's ears.
"You hear that, old man," he said. "The lady is a base materialist, while I—your funny old master—am sprouting wings and growing a halo as a visionary." Vane looked sideways at the girl. "He manages to make his own life, Joan. He'd be as happy with me in a garret as he would in a palace. . . . Probably happier, because he'd mean more to me—fill a bigger part of my life."