Once more they fell into talk, eager, excited, more intimate talk. They were calling each other “George” and “Elizabeth” before they reached the stately homes of Camden Town. By the time they passed Mornington Crescent they had admitted that they liked each other “frightfully” and would see a good deal of each other. In their excitement they talked rather incoherently, jumping from one topic to another in their eagerness to say something of all that seemed to clamour for expression, recklessly wasting their emotional energy. Their laughter had the ring of pure happiness. George slipped his arm through Elizabeth’s and held her fingers more amorously. Their natures expanded in a sudden delicious efflorescence; great coloured plumes of flowers seemed to sway and nod above their heads. They were enclosed in a nimbler air, the clear oxygen of desire, so light, so compact, so resistant to the grey monster Ennui of Sunday-in-London. “Isn’t it strange!” George exclaimed, with that fatuity peculiar to lovers, “I only met you this evening and yet I feel as if I had known you all my life!” “So do I!” He gratefully squeezed her fingers in silence, caught in a sudden panic of bashfulness, unable to pursue further. “Do let’s meet often. We can go to the galleries and Queen’s Hall and Hampton and Oxshott. I can get you tickets for the new picture shows. Do you know the Allied Artists?” “Yes, I belong.” “Do you? Why ever didn’t you tell me you are a painter, too?” “Oh, I’m such a bad painter, besides you didn’t ask me.” “Touché! How self-absorbed one is. I apologize.” “You must come and have tea at my studio and look at my—what I call my pictures. But you mustn’t be too critical. When can you come?” “Any time. To-morrow if you like.” Elizabeth laughed. “Oh! Oh! You are impatient. Can you come on Friday?” “So long? It seems ages away!” “Well, Thursday then.” “All right, what time?” “About four.” Elizabeth was probably not acquainted with Stendhal’s ingenious theory of crystallization, but she acted instinctively in accordance with it. Three days and four nights made exactly the right period. To-morrow was too soon, the crystals would be in process of formation. A week would be rather too long, they would be tending to disintegrate.... Infinite subtlety of females! One must admit they need it. * * * * * George accompanied Elizabeth to the boarding-house where she lived and took the address of her studio. She held out her hand, after putting the latch-key in the yale lock. “Till Thursday then, good-night.” “Good-night.” He held her hand a moment, and then awkwardly and timidly kissed it. In her turn she felt a sudden panic, opened the door swiftly, and disappeared inside, with a last hasty: “Good-night, good-night!” George stood for several moments irresolutely on the step. He was desolated, thinking he had offended her.