He watched, dumb, while she ungloved her pale hands, while she lifted them to her hat-pins. The curve of her raised arms fascinated his eyes. Still laughing, she removed the hat; and stretched it out to him. "You don't recognize this, I suppose?" "No." "Nor the dress? It's rather a funny dress for town--don't you think, man? Do you like being called 'man'? I decided that should be my name for you on my way here." But he could not remember either the hat or the dress. "I like them both," he said, "they're wallflower-brown--the same color as your eyes." "It's a winter dress--a country dress," she prompted. "So hot--that I'll have to take my coat off." Recollection stirred in him. His mind went back to the winter. He saw two figures, his and hers, strolling down-hill in the low March sunlight. "It's the dress you wore at Key Hatch." "Man, you're getting quite clever. Now tell me why I put it on this afternoon." Standing before him, her coat over one arm, the vivid of her hair uncovered, the brown silk of her blouse revealing the full throat, she seemed like a young girl; more an affianced bride than a woman who intended running away from her husband. He took the coat from her, and their hands met. He raised her fingers to his lips; and again she dimpled to laughter. "Tell me," said Aliette, "or I sha'n't give you any tea, why I put on this dress. Women, even when they're in love, don't wear their winter tweeds in the middle of the season." Instead, he kissed her--still tenderly. "How should I know, Aliette? This afternoon you're all a mystery to me. Tell me, why you are so different." "Light the kettle; and I'll try to tell you." She balanced herself on the edge of the settee. "You say I'm different this afternoon. I'm only different because I'm happy. And I'm happy because of you, because of us, because of everything. You, too?" "Yes." Her spirits infected him: he, too, laughed. "Happiness, you see, is our only justification," said the woman who intended running away from her husband. "I've got to make you happy. Otherwise, from the very outset, I fail. And if"--the tiniest note of seriousness crept into her voice--"if I can't make you happy, not just this afternoon, but always----" "You will," he interrupted. "And I you." Tea was rather a silent meal. They were content to sit through it, hand touching hand occasionally, their eyes on each other. To each of them it seemed as though, after long wandering, they had come home. For the moment, passion hardly existed. Almost they might have been boy and girl. "Did you fall in love with me that day with the Mid-Oxfordshire?" she asked. "I've often wondered." "It all seems so strange, Ronnie. Not like--like doing wrong." "We're not going to do anything wrong." "We are. That's the strangest part of it."