"I mustn't," Nicky said. "I should spend hours in dalliance; and if a shell got him it would ruin my morale."
Timmy, unhooked from Nicky's shoulder, lay limp in his arms. He lay on his back, in ecstasy, his legs apart, showing the soft, cream-white fur of his stomach. Nicky rubbed his face against the soft, cream-white fur.
"I say, what a heavenly death it would be to die--smothered in Timmies."
"Nicky, you're a beastly sensualist. That's what's the matter with you," John said. And they all laughed.
The minute broke, stretched to its furthest.
Frances was making plans now for Nicky's week. There were things they could do, plays they could see, places they could go to. Anthony would let them have the big car as much as they wanted. For you could stretch time out by filling it; you could multiply the hours by what they held.
"Ronny and I are going to get married to-morrow," Nicky said. "We settled it that we would at once, if I got war-leave. It's the best thing to do."
"Of course," Frances said, "it's the best thing to do."
But she had not allowed for it, nor for the pain it gave her. That pain shocked her. It was awful to think that, after all her surrenders, Nicky's happiness could give her pain. It meant that she had never let go her secret hold. She had been a hypocrite to herself.