‘Oh yes. She does that now and again.’ ‘She doesn’t call you darling,’ said Judith twinkling. ‘No. Nobody ever does.’ ‘Not anybody,--ever?’ ‘Not _any_body--_ever_.’ ‘What a pity! And it _is_ so enjoyable to be called darling.’ ‘I’ve no doubt it is. I tell you I’ve no experience.’ He peered into her face, and repeated piteously: ‘Nobody _ever_ does.’ Judith laughed aloud. ‘I will,’ she heard her own voice saying. ‘You really will?’ She waited. ‘Go on,’ he urged. The word would not come. ‘Go on, go on!’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘Oh, be quiet!’ ‘Please!...’ ‘No....’ She hid her face away from him and blushed. Laughing silently he gathered her up and started whirling, whirling. A deeper dream started. The room was a blur, flying, sinking away; only Roddy’s dark red tie and the line of his cheek and chin above it were real. She laughed and gasped, clinging to him. ‘Giddy?’ ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ He stopped and looked at her amusedly. ‘Oh, I _am_.’ She threw out an arm blindly and he caught it and supported her. ‘Come out on the verandah and get sober,’ he said. The spring night greeted them with a chill fragrance. Roddy’s eyes were so bright that she could see them shining, brimming with amusement in the dim light. ‘What are you looking at, Roddy?’ ‘You.’ ‘I can see your eyes. Can you see mine?’ He bent his head over hers. ‘Yes, of course. They’re like stars. Lovely dark eyes.’ ‘_Are_ they?... Roddy paying compliments,--how funny! Roddy, I remember you. Do you remember yourself when we were children?’ ‘Not much. I never remember the past. I suppose I’m not interested enough--or interesting enough.’ She felt checked, and dared not ask the ‘What do you remember about me?’ which should have opened the warm little paths of childish reminiscence. Roddy had no desire to recall the uninteresting figures of himself and the little girl Judith: that trifling relationship had been brushed away as soon as it had ceased. She must realize that, for him, no long threads came dragging from the web of the past, tangling the present. She stared into the dark garden, wondering what safe topic to propose. ‘When do you go back to Paris, Roddy?’ ‘Oh,--soon, I suppose.’ ‘Do you work very hard there?’ ‘Terribly hard.’ ‘Drawing or painting?’ ‘Some of both. Nothing of either.’ ‘I suppose you wouldn’t show me some of your things?’ ‘Couldn’t. I’ve nothing here. I’m having a rest.’ He twinkled at her. ‘What a pity! I should so have loved.... Which are you best at, drawing or painting?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. Drawing, I think. But I’m not any good. I just waste time.’ ‘Why do you?’ ‘Why indeed?’ ‘How funny! If I could draw I’d draw all day. I’d be so excited at being able to, I’d go on and on. I’d be so horrid and enthusiastic. I wouldn’t have any sense of humour about it. You’d think me _nauseating_, wouldn’t you?’ He nodded, smiling.