Fleur drooped her eyelids; turned a little pale, and bit her lips. “Oh!” she said. It was all, but it was much.
That “Oh!” was like the quick drawback of the wrist in fencing ready for riposte. It came.
“You must go!”
“Go?” said Jon in a strangled voice.
“Of course.”
“But—two months—it's ghastly.”
“No,” said Fleur, “six weeks. You'll have forgotten me by then. We'll meet in the National Gallery the day after you get back.”
Jon laughed.
“But suppose you've forgotten me,” he muttered into the noise of the train.
Fleur shook her head.