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Patricia laid her head against Simon’s shoulder.

“Yes, there is, dear,” she said. “I’ve studied yours so often. You carry it in your eyes. I wonder if Estelle will be able to read it. I don’t think so. And mine.... Haven’t you ever read mine?”

“Pat,” said Simon gently, “don’t make things worse. We agreed to wash Sentiment out.”

“I know, I know. But don’t say we shouldn’t get on. Leave me my pretty dream.”

“All right, lady. I—I dare say we should. But you never can tell,” he added, “and I don’t know that dreams aren’t rather dangerous things.”

“D’you mean that I mustn’t dwell on what might have been?”

“I think you should try not to. I mean, it’s unsettling. After all, we’re not madly in love. I don’t stop breathing when you go out of the room, and you don’t come over queer when I come in.”

“I feel all pleased, Simon.”

“That’s more fellow-feeling than love. I’m a congenial soul. We’ve fitted in very well, and that’s as much as you can say. We don’t give up things for one another. I haven’t pawned my boots to buy you a wrist-watch or soaked in money on flowerets. When I’ve given you dinner——”