There was always that refrain: Whatever happens.
"I keep forgetting it doesn't really belong to me; it belongs to everybody, to the whole world. I believe I'm jealous."
"Of the British public? It doesn't really love me, Lucy, nor I it."
"Whether it does or not, you do remember that I loved you first—before anybody ever knew?"
"I do indeed."
"It is a shame to be so glad because Kitty is away."
Yet she continued to rejoice in the happiness that came of their solitude. It was Keith, not Kitty, who arranged her cushions for her and covered her feet; Keith, not Kitty, who poured out tea for her, and brought it her, and sat beside her afterwards, leaning over her and stroking her soft hair, as Kitty loved to do.
"Lucy," he said suddenly, "can you stand living with me in a horrid little house in a suburb?"
"I should love it. Dear little house."
"Maddox is in it now; but we'll turn him out. You don't know Maddox?"