At half-past one next day Millie and Henry were sitting opposite one another at a little table in a Knightsbridge restaurant. This might easily have been an occasion for one of their old familiar squabbles—there was material sufficient—but it was a mark of the true depths of their affection that the one immediately recognised when the other was in real and earnest trouble—so soon as that was recognised any question of quarrelling—and they enjoyed immensely that healthy exercise—was put away. Henry made that recognition now, and complicated though his own affairs were and very far from immediate happiness, he had no thought but for Millie.
She, as was her way, at once challenged him:
"Of course you didn't like him," she said.
"No, I didn't," he answered. "But you didn't expect me to, did you?"
"I wanted you to. . . . No, I don't know. You will like him when you know him better. You're always funny when any one from outside dares to try and break into the family. Remember how you behaved over Philip."
"Ah, Philip! I was younger then. Besides there isn't any family to break into now. . . ." He leant forward and touched her hand. "There isn't anything I want except for you to be happy, really there isn't. Of course for myself I'd rather you stayed as you are for a long time to come—it's better company for me, but that's against nature. I made up my mind to be brave when the moment came, but I'd imagined some one——"
"Yes, I know," broke in Millie, "that's what one's friends always insist on, that they should do the choosing. But it's me that's got to do the living." She laughed. "What a terrible sentence, but you know what I mean. . . . How do you know I'm not happy?" she suddenly ended.
"Oh, of course any one can see. Your letters haven't been happy, your looks aren't happy, you weren't happy with him yesterday——"
"I was—the last part," she said, thinking. "Of course we'd quarrelled just before we came in. We're always quarrelling, I'm sure I don't know why. I'm not a person to quarrel much, now am I?"