Sometimes, half shyly, Bertie would try to talk of the future, say they could not always live in the army.
"There are such dear little places to be found, Es"—he used to study advertisements—"just big enough. We could keep a horse or two, a garden—be so happy!"
"And become cabbages ourselves. Play bridge with the parson and his wife, and go to summer tennis-parties with two men and forty maids. London, my Bertie, it's the only place for poor people. The country is all very well if you need never stay there, but to grow rooted to garden soil! Boo! I'll get you on! You shall be a General and inspect armies."
Bertie gave up his dream of a little house in the country; he got used to the careless, ever-moving life. And now he sickened of it.
If women were flowers, this woman standing near him was a violet, a simple thing, only beautiful to those who love sweetness better than flaring beauty.
"You're worried," she said. "Where is Esmé?"
"Esmé is out for the day," he said.
"Then you've often promised me an outing. Come and be a cheap tripper with me; let it be my treat. I got a cheque from mother yesterday. I'm rich. Let's pretend we're very poor, and enjoy ourselves. You mustn't sit there brooding."
Bertie put away the books, laughed up at the gentle face. He would, but he must pay half.
The May day was theirs; they would enjoy it as two children.