A few minutes later Irene got through again.
"I've got nothing more to say," she said, "have you?"
"Nor have I. I love you."
The words rang emptily on the edge of the mouthpiece. Lewis felt, however, that at the other side of the Channel his words had struck home.
"No," she said, and hung up the receiver.
"Either the telephone or the distance spoils her voice," thought Lewis, "making it sound serious and taking away its charm." (Hitherto the voices that woke him up at night rang with silvery laughter, merry voices, saying, "Good morning, you"; younger voices, the staccato or husky voices of little Paris ladies.) But this voice was that of a good woman.
As Lewis was musing in the darkness of his room on the conversation which had just taken place, already finding it difficult to remember it all, so far off did it seem, almost like a conversation in a dream, the telephone bell rang sharply; it was Madame Magnac.
"My dear boy, I am glad to hear you are back. I suppose you're off again soon; all your business seems to take you so far away."
"Off again? Never, now that I have heard your voice," said Lewis.
"It is the last time you will have that enchanting pleasure," replied Madame Magnac, disdainfully. "Foreign calls always have priority. Good-bye."