Then, quite suddenly, she began to talk to me with eagerness, bending forward across the table till her head was only a few inches from mine. "You know, Jimmy--(you don't mind me calling you that, do you?)--I believe you're rather clever. Geoffrey says you are, but I don't mean _his_ sort of cleverness--I mean _my_ sort, which consists in understanding people. I believe you _do_ understand people, and I'm certain you notice most things that happen. You noticed, for instance, how I was talking to Terry last night. And you noticed how I blushed just now when I mentioned his name.... Didn't you?" I admitted it. She went on: "On the whole I'm rather glad Geoffrey talked last night as he did. I wouldn't like Terry to be really influenced by Geoffrey, but still, Geoffrey's rather good at shaking foundations. And Terry's foundations _need_ shaking." "Were they shaken?" "Just a little, I think. But _I_ did most of the shaking." She added very quietly: "I'm going to be perfectly frank with you and tell you the whole truth. I'm in love with Terry. There now--what do you make of that?" What _could_ I make of it? You are sitting over a cup of tea in a fashionable café when your companion, a pretty married woman, tells you quite calmly that she is in love with one of your greatest friends. What is the correct thing to say? Should you exclaim: "Really? How thrilling!" or adopt an attitude of commiseration? I did neither. I put into words the thought that came straightway into my head. I said: "Being in love's bound to happen, I suppose. If you keep cool about it, it isn't frightfully important." "How do you know?" "Well ... I've always been very slightly in love with you." "How nice of you!" she exclaimed, with genuine appreciation of what is, after all, the extremest compliment a man can pay a woman. "It's a most wonderful thing to tell me, but I'm afraid it's not much use as a comparison. For you've only got it slightly, whereas I'm in love with Terry just ... just tremendously." "Are you really?" "Yes." It was then that I realized how lovely she was. The admission had brought a heightened colour into her cheeks, and as she sat there, waiting for me to say something, I saw in her again that utmost beauty that includes and yet is beyond the merely physical--a challenge rather than a statement. She smiled at me suddenly. "Don't look so serious. Have some more tea.... That's right.... I'm glad I've told you, anyway. Do you think it's _very_ awful?" "It may be--for you," I answered. "For _me_?" She laughed. "Why, I'm not a bit afraid. It's so wonderful and interesting--so far--that I wouldn't give it up whatever happened. Do you know--" her eyes glowed with sharp excitement--"since it began to--to happen--all life seems to have caught fire.... Do you know what I mean? Everything is so--so _different_--so _splendid_...."