Upon a Sunday evening in February he discontentedly began to wait on her at supper. "Dormouse," he called from the table, "what are you going to drink?" To his surprise Vivette suddenly sat up: "Champagne to-night. I'm going to be full of beans. I shall do Swedish drill in the morning." "Not a day too soon," grumbled Peter. "I wonder you can stand it, eating butter and cream all day and lying on your back. You must have the liver of a horse." "You are right," she retorted. "People pretend to despise me for being lazy. It's envy, Peter. Everybody would be lazy in the winter if their health would stand it." She pushed away a plate of delicate soufflé. "Not to-night, Peter. I'm going to eat some meat." "I often wonder about you," said Peter. "Really?" "Do you do nothing with your whole heart, or everything?" "Everything," said Vivette, with her mouth full. "I don't believe anything really touches you." Peter was trying to be serious. "You are forgetting the champagne," she interrupted. Peter went to the cupboard, brought out a bottle and exploded it. "Thank you, Peter. There's nothing in the world like the pop of a champagne cork. It makes me think." "Think?" said Peter, with his nose in the air. "Yes," she insisted. "It makes me think how nothing matters at all, or how everything matters tremendously. I don't know which." "I hate champagne," said Peter viciously. "Of course." "Why 'of course'?" "There's something which doesn't fit in your popping a champagne cork. It's like laughing in church." "Champagne is vulgar. It's only good for a bean-feast." "You're going to have some, I suppose?" She looked at him in a way that spoke between the lines of her question. Peter hated the challenge of her light inquiry. He wanted to deepen it. In many small ways Vivette had held herself out to Peter, but she did not seem to care what he would do. He poured himself some wine and drank to her. "This is excellent champagne," he said brightly. Then he drooped. "It isn't my stuff," he added. "I love it. Pop--and it's all over." "It goes flat in the glass." "Just for a moment it's perfect." "The present, I suppose, is all that matters?" said Peter, heavily censorious. "Why not?" she slanted her amusement at Peter, and delicately crushed the bubbles of her wine. "Have you ever taken anything seriously in your life?" asked Peter. "I have never inquired." Her eyes flickered. Their wavering light exasperated his desire to move her deeply, to hold for a moment her nimble spirit that ran at a touch like quicksilver. She felt his rising passion, and her mimic soul responded under the surface of her laughter. She did not stir when Peter came near and took her by the shoulders. Her eyes were still the familiar changing shallows. They raised in Peter an ambition to see them deepen and burn.