"Ah! Come and have lunch," I said, "and we'll talk it over. Some place where I can hold your hand and really find out if you are the cause of it all."
"Do you think I ought to?" she said.
"Good heavens! Of course you ought," I said. "It's most important. My heart's only murmuring now, but it may start shouting soon, and a silly ass I shall look walking about in the street with a heart yelling 'Beatrice' at the top of its voice."
As regards meat and drink I consider that Beatrice overdid it for a war-time lunch. She didn't give me any time to hold her hand, she was so busy.
"It's curious," I said, as I watched the amount of food that was going her way, "but my heart seems to have stopped murmuring altogether."
"Has it?" she said. "Oddly enough, mine's begun."
"Your luncheon has overstrained you," I said.
I had a letter from Beatrice the next morning.
DEAR JIMMY (she wrote),—You were wrong. Mine was a real murmur. It's been coming on for some time, but not on your account. It's murmuring for Basil Fludger. He's on leave, and we fixed things up last Tuesday. I didn't tell you when I met you, because I was afraid you wouldn't want to take me to lunch, and I did enjoy it.
Yours ever, BEATRICE.
If my heart gets really noisy I do hope it won't shout for Beatrice. It would be so useless.