“But your leave——?”
“Ends on Monday,” lied Peter.
For some moments it looked as though Joan meant to make that last week-end a black one. “That doesn’t give us much time together,” said Joan, and her voice which had soared now crawled the earth.... “I’m sorry.”
Just for a moment she hung, a dark and wounded Joan, downcast and thoughtful; and then turned and put her arms akimbo, and looked at him and smiled awry. “Well, old Peter, then we’ve got to make the best use of our time. It’s your Birf Day, sort of; it’s your Bank Holiday, dear; it’s every blessed thing for you—such time as we have together. Before they take you off again. I think they’re greedy, but it can’t be helped. Can it, Peter?”
“It can’t be helped,” said Peter. “No.”
They paused.
“What shall we do?” said Joan. “The program’s got to be cut down. Shall we still try tennis?”
“I want to. I don’t see why this wrist——” He held it out and rotated it.
“Good old arm!” said Joan, and ran a hand along it.
“I’ll go and change these breeches and things,” said Joan. “And get myself female. Gods, Peter! the craving to get into clothes that are really flexible and translucent!”