There was a silence.
"Because...." He seemed to find a difficulty in speaking. "Because of Underhill?"
Jill nodded. She felt wretched. The monstrous incongruity of her surroundings oppressed her. The orchestra had dashed into a rollicking melody, which set her foot tapping in spite of herself. At a near-by table somebody was shouting with laughter. Two waiters at a service-stand were close enough for her to catch snatches of their talk. They were arguing about an order of fried potatoes. Once again her feelings veered round, and she loathed the detachment of the world. Her heart ached for Wally. She could not look at him, but she knew exactly what she would see if she did—honest, pleading eyes searching her face for something which she could not give.
"Yes," she said.
The table creaked. Wally was leaning further forward. He seemed like something large and pathetic—a big dog in trouble. She hated to be hurting him. And all the time her foot tapped accompaniment to the rag-time tune.
"But you can't live all your life with a memory," said Wally.
Jill turned and faced him. His eyes seemed to leap at her, and they were just as she had pictured them.
"You don't understand," she said gently. "You don't understand."
"It's ended. It's over."
Jill shook her head.