“It isn't that I don't want to get up, really,” she explains presently. “It's only that I like lying here and thinking about all the things that are going to happen.”
“We are lucky, you know. Lordy bless the American Express.”
“And my job.” She smiles and he winces.
“Oh, Ollie, dear.”
“I was so damn silly,” says Oliver muffledly.
“Both of us. But now it doesn't matter. And we're both of us going to work and be very efficient at it—only now we'll have time and together and Paris to do all the things we really wanted to do. You are going to be a great novelist, Oliver, you know—”
“Well, you're going to be the foremost etcher—or etcheress—since Whistler—there. But, oh, Nancy, I don't care if I write great novels—or any novels—or anything else—just now.”
She mocks him pleasantly. “Why, Ollie, Ollie, Your Art?”
“Oh, damn my art—I mean—well, I don't quite mean that. But this is life.”
“Just as large and twice as natural,” says Nancy quoting, but for once Oliver is too interested with living to be literary.