She pressed his hand and looked out of window.  “Where are we, Peter?  Whitehall?  Where are we off to?”

“I’ve got the snuggest little suite in all London, darling,” he said, “with a fairy palace at our beck and call.  I’ve been revelling in it all day—­not exactly in it, you know, but in the thought of it.  I’ve been too busy shopping to be in much; and Julie, I hope you notice my hands:  I’ve had a special manicure in preparation for you.  And the girl is coming round to-morrow before breakfast to do me again—­or at least she wanted to.”

“What are you talking about?  Peter, what have you been doing to-day?” She sighed a mock sigh.  “Really, you’re getting beyond me; it’s rather trying.”

Peter launched out into the story to fill up time.  He really did not want to speak of the rooms, that they might give her the greater surprise.  So he kept going till the taxi stopped before the hotel.  He jumped out gaily as the commissionaire opened the door.

“Come on,” he said, “as quick as ever you can.”  Then, to the man:  “Have these sent up to No. 420, will you, please?” And he took Julie’s arm.

They went in at the great door, and crossed the wide entrance-hall.  Everyone glanced at Julie, Peter noted proudly, even the girls behind the sweet-counter, and the people waiting about as always.  Julie held her head high and walked more sedately than usual.  She was a bit different, thought Peter, but even nicer.  He glowed at the thought.

He led her to the lift and gave his landing number.  They walked down the corridor in silence and in at their door.  Peter opened the door on the left and stood back.  Julie went in.  He followed and shut the door behind them.

The maid had lit a fire, which blazed merrily.  Julie took it all in—­the flowers, the pile of magazines, even the open box of cigarettes, and she turned enthusiastically to him and flung her arms round his neck, kissing him again and again.  “Oh, Peter darling,” she cried, “I can’t tell you how I love you!  I could hardly sit still in the railway carriage, and the train seemed worse than a French one.  But now I have you at last, and all to myself.  Oh, Peter, my darling Peter!”

There came a knock at the door.  Julie disengaged her arms from his neck, but slipped her hand in his, and he said, “Come in.”

The maid entered, carrying tea.  She smiled at them.  “I thought madame might like tea at once, sir,” she said, and placed the tray on the little table.

“Thank you ever so much,” said Julie impulsively; “that is good of you.  I’m longing for it.  One gets so tired in the train.”  Then she walked to the glass.  “I’ll take off my hat, Peter,” she said, “and my coat, and then well have tea comfortably.  I do want it, and a cigarette.  You’re an angel to have thought of my own De Reszke.”

She threw herself into a big basket chair, and leaned over to the table.  “Milk and sugar for you, Peter?  By the way, I ought to know these things; not that it much matters; ours was a war marriage, and I’ve hardly seen you at all!”