"I like her," said I. "She's a dear," said my companion. "I like you, too," said I. She swept me a curtsey. "It was silly of me to faint." "You did it so sweetly." "This'll teach you not to take other people's taxis." "On the contrary-- "Would you like to give me some chicken?" "I should like--" "Yes?" She looked at me straight in the eyes. I walked to the table and took up the knife and fork. "Yes?" I looked at her, smiling gloriously now. "Oh, I'd like Berry to see us now." She came across and laid a hand on my shoulder. "I like you, too," she said. We had a great meal. She didn't want to drink any champagne, but I persuaded her to take a little. "And who's Berry?" she said, pushing back her chair. "A mistake," said I. "A great mistake. That's what he is." She laughed. "Who made him?" "My sister. She married him, you see." "Of course, I shall get confused in a moment." "Well, things have got a move on in the last hour and a quarter, haven't they? I mean to say, at five o'clock you found a stranger in your taxi. Five minutes later you were smashed up. Now you're in a prima donna's room at the Opera House, eating a cold collation. Collation is good, isn't it?" "Awfully? Where did you hear it?" I frowned. "I came out top in dictation last term." "Indeed? Genius and madness do go together, don't they? You are mad, aren't you?" "Raving, my dear. I've been certified for two years come Ember. Out on licence under the new Cock and Bull Bill. You know, 'And your petitioners will ever Pray--'" "I suppose you do have lucid intervals?" "Only on third Tuesdays." "Such as to-day." "By Jove, so it is. I thought one was about due. Now I come to think of it, I nearly had one just now." "When?" "When you asked me what I should like." In silence she traced a pattern upon the white cloth with a small pink finger. I watched it, and wondered whether her eyes were smiling. I couldn't see them, but her mouth looked as if it wanted to. Then: "I think you'd better tell me when the interval's coming," she said quietly. "One usually goes out--" "You're thinking of Plays," said I. "Between Acts II and III ten minutes and the safety curtain. But with Life and fools it's different. You don't go out in these intervals." "No?" "No," I said. "On the contrary, it's where you come in." She looked up, smiling, at that. I addressed her eyes. "You see, in Life it's just the intervals that count--those rare hours when, though the band's not playing, there's music in the air; though the world's standing still, and no one's looking on, there's most afoot; though the--" Here the door opened, and Madame came in, Yvonne at her heels. "It is the interval," she explained. "Thank you." Oh, but she was in fine fettle, was Madame.