He was silent for a moment. "It's no use my trying to say how perfect you are," he said at last.
"Dear, delightful, serious, conscience-stricken gloomkins," she laughed at him. "What does all this matter ... how we share things, I mean? The only real thing is enthusiasm, wanting and feeling and loving. You were at a loose end until you began to feel; you couldn't work, you couldn't do anything. Nor could I. And now work is all changed and seems better and easier. The office is a palace for me, India a pleasure garden for you. Do stop worrying and be sensible."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll try and be good. You're always right. This taxi goes far too fast. We're in your street."
"Bother," she said.
"Let's tell him to drive on somewhere else and come back in another one."
"No. You've spent far too much and we've done that often enough. I'm going to be a good girl to-night."
"Tyrant."
"Wastrel."
"He's stopping. One more kiss."
Through streets that more than ever resembled enchanted pathways in a forest of shadow and silver, Martin went back exulting to his hotel.