Peter sat opposite, and watched her pour out.  She leaned back with a piece of toast in her hands, her eyes on him, and they smiled across at each other.  Suddenly he could bear it no longer.  He put his cup down and knelt forward at her feet, his arms on her knees, devouring her.  “Oh, Julie,” he said, “I want to worship you—­I do indeed.  I can’t believe my luck.  I can’t think that you love me.”

Her white teeth bit into the toast.  “You old silly,” she said.  “But I don’t want to be worshipped; I won’t be worshipped; I want to be loved, Peter.”

He put his arms up, and pulled her head down to his, kissing her again and again, stroking her arm, murmuring foolish words that meant nothing and meant everything.  It was she who stopped him.  “Go and sit down,” she said, “and tell me all the plans.”

“Well,” he said, “I do hope you’ll like them.  First, I’ve not booked up anything for to-night.  I thought we’d go out to dinner to a place I know and sit over it, and enjoy ourselves.  It’s a place in Soho, and quite humorous, I think.  Then we might walk back:  London’s so perfect at night, isn’t it?  To-morrow I’ve got seats for the Coliseum matinee.  You know it, of course; it’s a jolly place where one can talk if one wants to, and smoke; and then I’ve seats in the evening for Zigzag.  Saturday night we’re going to see Carminetta, which they say is the best show in town, and Saturday morning we can go anywhere you please, or do anything.  And we can cut out any of them if you like,” he added.

She let her arms lie along the chair, and drew a breath of delight.  “You’re truly wonderful,” she said.  “What a blessing not having to worry what’s to be done!  It’s a perfect programme.  I only wish we could be in Paris for Sunday; it’s so slow here.”

He smiled.  “You’re sure you’re not bored about to-night?” he asked.  She looked him full in the eyes and said nothing.  He sprang up and rushed towards her.  She laughed her old gay laugh, and avoided him, jumping up and getting round the table.  “No,” she warned; “no more now.  Come and show me the rest of the establishment.”

Arm in arm they made the tour of inspection.  In the bathroom Julie’s eyes danced.  “Thank the Lord for that bath, Peter,” she said.  “I shall revel in it.  That’s one thing I loathe about France, that one can’t get decent baths, and in the country here it’s no better.  I had two inches of water in a foot-bath down in Sussex, and when you sit in the beastly thing only about three inches of yourself get wet and those the least important inches.  I shall lie in this for hours and smoke, and you shall feed me with chocolates and read to me.  How will you like that?”

Peter made the only possible answer, and they went back to the bedroom.  The man was bringing up her luggage, and he deposited it on the luggage-stool.  “Heavens!” said Julie, “where are my keys?  Oh, I know, in my purse.  I hope you haven’t lost it.  Do give it to me.  The suit-case is beautifully packed, but the trunk is in an appalling mess.  I had to throw my things in anyhow.  By the way, I wonder what they’ll make of different initials on all our luggage?  Not that it matters a scrap, especially these days.  Besides, I don’t suppose they noticed.”