“Well, will you dream you are going to take her for a spin into the country shortly? I happen to know she is fainting for the longing to breathe country air.” “In my dream I am already waiting at her door, with the Yellow Peril spluttering its heart out with delight, and eagerness to be off. I have even dreamt she managed to put a motor bonnet on in half-an-hour—is it conceivable—or should it be half a day?” “No, your dream is right. Be outside the door in half an hour, and you will see.” An hour later they were spinning out into Surrey at an alarming pace, both silently revelling in the freshness and motion and the fact that they were too old friends to need to trouble about conversation. When they dived into the lanes he slowed down, remarking: “I suppose we mustn’t risk scrunching any one up.” Lorraine only smiled, remaining silent a little longer, and then she suddenly asked him: “When you feel yourself inclined to fall in love foolishly what do you do?” “Well… as a rule…” he began slowly and humorously, “I either cut and run, or I hurry to see so much of her that I am bound to get bored.” “The first plan sounds the safest, but would often be the most difficult of execution. Supposing the second miscarries and you don’t get bored?” “Well, then I think—usually—there is an awful moment when I have to tell her I can’t afford both a motor and a wife; and to be motorless would kill me.” A sudden little twitching at the corners made Lorraine’s mouth dangerously fascinating. “Evidently you have never fallen in love with me,” she said, “for you have not been driven to either way of escape.” He looked into her face with an answering humour, and a twinkle in his eyes as alluring as her smilling lips. “Because when I fell in love with you I did it sensibly, and not foolishly,” was his answer; “instinct told me I couldn’t have you for my wife however much I wished it, so I said myself: ‘Flip, old boy, she’ll make a thundering good pal, you close with it,’ and I did.” She made no comment, and he went on more seriously: “You see, even if you became marriageable and I cut out the motor, you wouldn’t be attracted to an ordinary sort of cove like me. I suit you down to the ground as a pal, but it wouldn’t go any farther.” “I wonder why you think that?” “I don’t exactly _think_ it—thinking is too much bother—but it’s just there, like a commonplace fact. You are all temperament, and high-strung nerves, and soul, and enthusiasm, and that sort of thing, which makes you a great actress. I’m just a two-legged, superior sort of animal, who hasn’t much brain, but knows what he likes, and usually does it without wasting time on pros and cons. Consequently, I’m just as likely to end in prison as anywhere else, and take it without much concern as all in the day’s work. You are more likely to end in a nunnery, as the most devout of all the nuns.” “What an odd idea! Why a nunnery?”