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“Well!” cried Phil. “Well! Now how—now what—I mean, what can a fellow say in these circumstances? Come along! Come on in! Hurry up about it!”

And: “We’re so glad!” said Catherine.

They pushed him into their flat, through the dining-room, into the sitting-room, and plumped him down in an easy chair. A table stood beside it, with a pitcher and glasses. Ice tinkled as the table was jostled.

“Sauterne cup,” Phil explained breathlessly. “ ‘Gather ye rose-buds’ and so forth. Only a short time left, you know. Sole subject of conversation in our great republic. Here! Drink! ‘Drink for your altars and your fires!’ I mean to say: ‘Drink, for once dead you never—’ oh, no, that isn’t it!” And he broke out laughing.

Catherine was calmer, or anyway more static. She had sat down on an ottoman, elbows on knees, chin in hands, and was gazing up at Stacey. But her face, too, glowed with pleasure.

Stacey was smiling faintly. He looked from one to the other and said to himself that they were both just the same as four and a half years since, for all that Phil looked older and more worn and even a little thinner.