“No. I’ve got that down. Oh, I know. There was a poor woman at the butter-stall with the cutest little boy. She was getting the cheapest butter, and when they told her eggs were seven francs—they’ve gone up, you know—she wouldn’t have any. And there was I, getting the best butter and a pot of honey and some cream. It seemed so awful. . . . And the little boy was watching me with great, big eyes. So I asked him if he liked honey. . . . D’you know, wrapped up in paper he’d got a little empty jar? And his mother said that he always took it when he went to the market with her, and that if ever she had a little money over, then they spent it on honey, and his little jar was filled. She said he was wonderful—never complained. For weeks he’d brought his jar back empty, but he’d never cried or asked for anything. And he was only four. . . . You ought to have seen his face while it was being filled.” “I’d rather ’ve seen yours,” said Simon Beaulieu. His wife blew him a kiss. “By the way, I’ve always meant to ask you and I’ve always forgotten till now. That night at Breathless, as we were going in, you said I was unlike my namesake because he would have plunged.” “I remember,” said Patricia. “And then you qualified that, and said that in a way we were alike.” “Yes.” “I’ve always meant to ask you—what did you mean?” Patricia crossed to her husband and set her cheek against his. “I meant that you had the keys of heaven,” she said. “And I was perfectly right.” TOBY TOBY “You know,” said Cicely Voile, “you’re a great relief.” Her companion opened one eye. “Why?” “Because you don’t make love.” Captain Toby Rage folded his hands upon his stomach and regarded the blue heaven. This the April sun had to himself and, making the most of his monarchy, set the whole firmament ablaze. A mile away the Atlantic simmered contentedly—a rolling, laughing steppe of blue and silver; the lazy murmur of its surf gladdened the ear. To the left the mountain-sides smoked in the heat, the comfortable haze blurring their grandeur to beauty. To the right the coast of France danced all the way to Biarritz, her gay green frock flecked with the dazzling white of villas, edged by the yellow road that sweeps to Spain. Behind, the countryside, a very Canaan, basked in the earnest of summer, peaceful and big with promise of abundance to come. From the moor where the two were sitting all these things could be enjoyed. It was, indeed, a superb withdrawing-room, for, while an occasional snarl told of a car flying on the broad highway, no one essayed the by-road which led to the yellow broom. “The art of life,” said Toby, “is to be fancy-free.” Cicely Voile clapped her sweet-smelling hands. “We’re going to get on—you and I,” she cried excitedly. “I can see that.” “Why?”—suspiciously. “Because our outlook’s the same. Think of the friendships that have been wrecked by love.” Captain Rage groaned.