[_Almost inaudibly._] Oh, Phil! PHILIP. [_Tenderly._] And so this is the end of the journey, Otto! OTTOLINE. [_In a whisper._] The end? PHILIP. The dreary journey in opposite directions you and I set out upon nearly eleven years ago in Paris. OTTOLINE. [_Quivering._] Ah----! PHILIP. My dear, what does it matter as long as our roads meet at last, and meet where there are clear pools to bathe our vagabond feet and sunshine to heal our sore bodies! [_She raises her head and rummages for her handkerchief._] Otto----! OTTOLINE. Yes? PHILIP. In April--eh----? OTTOLINE. [_Drying her eyes._] April----? PHILIP. You haven't forgotten the compact we entered into at Robbie Roope's? OTTOLINE. [_Brightening._] Ah, no! PHILIP. In April we walk under the chestnut-trees once more in the Champs-Elysees----! OTTOLINE. [_Smiling through her tears._] And the Allee de Longchamp----! PHILIP. As husband and wife--we shall be an old married couple by then----! OTTOLINE. [_Pulling on her glove._] And drink milk at the d'Armenonville----! PHILIP. And the Pre-Catelan----! OTTOLINE. And we'll make pilgrimages, Phil----! PHILIP. Yes, we'll gaze up at the windows of my gloomy lodgings in the Rue Soufflot--what was the number?---- OTTOLINE. [_Contracting her brows._] _Quarante-trois bis._ PHILIP. [_Banteringly._] Where you honoured me with a visit, madame, with your maid Nanette---- OTTOLINE. [_Warding off the recollection with a gesture._] Oh, don't----! PHILIP. Ha, ha, ha! A shame of me----! OTTOLINE. [_Turning from him._] Do get your hat and coat. PHILIP. [_Going into the vestibule._] Where's your car? OTTOLINE. [_Moving towards the vestibule._] In South Square. PHILIP. [_Returning to her, a cape over his shoulders, a soft hat on his head._] Eight o'clock! OTTOLINE. Eight o'clock. [_He takes her hands and they stand looking into each other's eyes._ PHILIP. [_After a pause._] Fancy! OTTOLINE.