o dull," she objected. "Sylvia says it's appallingly dull.
And she's been married."

"What has Sylvia got to do with it?" he demanded.

"Oh, well, she's been awfully sweet to me. And after all, when mother
died, what was I to do? I couldn't bear Doris any more. She always gets
on my nerves. Anyway, don't let's talk about marriage now. In the summer
I shall feel more cheerful. I hate this weather."

"But look here," he persisted. "Are you in love with me?"

She nodded, yet too doubtfully to please him.

"Well, if you're not in love with me...."

"Oh, I am, I am! Don't shout so, Michael. If I wasn't awfully fond of
you, I shouldn't have made Sylvia ask you to come back. She hates men
coming here."

"Are you Sylvia's servant?" said Michael, in exasperation.

"Don't be stupid. Of course not."

"It's ridiculous," he grumbled, "to quote her with every sentence."

"Why you couldn't have stayed where you were," said Lily fretfully, "I
don't know. It was lovely sitting by the fire and being kissed. If
you're so much in love with me, I wonder you wanted to get up."

"So, we're not to talk any more about marriage?"

After all, he told himself, it was unreasonable of him to suppose that
Lily was likely to be as impulsive as himself. Her temperament was not
the same. She did not mean to discourage him.

"Don't let's talk about anything," said Lily. He could not stand aloof
from the arms she held wide open.

Sylvia would not be coming back for at least three days, and Michael
spent all his time with Lily. He thought that Mrs. Gainsborough looked
approvingly upon their love; at any rate, she never worried them. The
weather was steadily unpleasant, and though he took Lily out to lunch,
it never seemed worth while to stay away from Tinderbox Lane very long.
One night, however, they went to the Palace, and afterward, when he
asked her where she would like to go, she suggested Verrey's. Michael
had never been there before, and he was rather jealous that Lily should
seem to know it so well. However, he liked to see her sitting in what he
told himself was the only cafe in London which had escaped the
cheapening of popularity and had kept its old air of the Third Empire.

As Lily was stirring her lemon-squash, her languid forearm looked very
white swaying from the somber mufflings of her cloak. Something in her
self-possession, a momentary hardness and disdain, made Michael suddenly
suspicious.

"Do you enjoy Covent Garden