"Give me a cigarette! no, put the box there. Stir up the fire. Come and sit on the floor with your back to me. That's right. Now fire away."
She leaned back and he began. He read for the rhythm; she listened for the meaning. He read to the end; she hardly heard more than a stanza:
"Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain—this Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the rest is lies—
The flower that once has blown for ever dies."
They lunched in the hotel, and at the table Peter put the first necessary questions that they both dreaded. "I'm going to tell them to make out my bill, Julie," he said. "I've to be at Victoria at seven-thirty a.m. to-morrow, you know. You've still got some leave, haven't you, dear; what are you going to do? How long will you stay on here?"
"Not after you've gone, Peter," she said. "Let them make it out for me till after breakfast to-morrow."
"But what are we going to do?" he demanded.
"Oh, don't ask. It spoils to-day to think of to-morrow. Go to my friends, perhaps—yes, I think that. It's only for a few days now."
"Oh, Julie, I wish I could stay."
"So do I, but you can't, so don't worry. What about this afternoon?"
"If it's stopped raining, let's go for a walk, shall we?"