I looked at her in sudden alarm.
"You're—you're quite sure you aren't a widow, Phyllis?"
"Quite. Why?"
"Talking of business at a time like this. It sounds so—so experienced."
"Well, if you will try to settle our whole future lives in one short week-end leave, we must at least be practical. Anyway, it's just this. I'm not going to be engaged to you until there's some prospect of our getting married. I hate long engagements."
"That means not till after the War, then," said I disconsolately.
"I'm afraid it does. But when once the War's over it won't be long before you'll be able to keep me in the style to which I'm accustomed, will it?"
"Years and years, I should think," said I, looking at her new hat. "It'll take at least a pound a day even to start with."
"Three hundred and sixty-five a year," said she thoughtfully.
"And an extra one in Leap Year," I warned her.