"What have you got?" demanded Tommy hungrily.
Joyce ticked them off with her fingers. "There's a cold chicken and salad, some stuffed olives—those are for you, Neil, you always used to like them—a piece of Stilton cheese and a couple of bottles of champagne. They're all in the kitchen, so come along both of you and help me get them."
"Where's the faithful Clara?" asked Tommy.
"I've sent her out for the evening. I didn't want any one to be here except just us three."
We all trooped into Joyce's tiny kitchen and proceeded to carry back our supper into the studio, where we set it out on the table in the centre. We were so ridiculously happy that for some little time our conversation was inclined to be a trifle incoherent: indeed, it was not until we had settled down round the table and Tommy had knocked the head off the first bottle of champagne with the back of his knife that we in any way got back to our real environment.
It was Joyce who brought about the change. "I keep on feeling I shall wake up in a minute," she said, "and find out that it's all a dream."
"Put it off as long as possible," said Tommy gravely. "It would be rotten for Neil to find himself back in Dartmoor before he'd finished his champagne."
"I don't know when I shall get any more as it is," I said. "I've got to start work the day after tomorrow."
There was a short pause: Joyce pushed away her plate and leaned forward, her eyes fixed on mine; while Tommy stretched out his arm and filled up my glass.
"Go on," he said. "What's happened?"