"Clive, do you remember—" and she breathlessly recalled some gay and long forgotten incident of that never to be forgotten winter together when the theatres and restaurants knew them so well, and the day-world and night-world both credited them with being to each other everything that they had never been.
"Where will you live?" she asked.
He said: "You know I have sold our old house.... I don't know—" He looked at her gravely and ashamed: "I think I will take your old apartment."
She blushed to her hair: "Were you annoyed with me because I left it?"
"It hurt."
"But Clive!—I couldn't remain,—after you had become engaged to marry."
"Did you need to leave everything you owned?"
"They were not mine," she said in a low, embarrassed voice.
"Whose then?"
"Yours. I never considered them mine.... As though I were a girl of little consideration ... who paid herself, philosophically, for what she had lost.... Like a man's mistress after the inevitable break has come—"