"Rot, old girl. You dip your beak in it--it's mostly froth and fizz,
and no more strength than the lager beer, as far as I can make out."
"How much does it cost?"
"Shan't tell. Yes, I will," and he roared with laughter, "since it's
you that's paying for it. Best part of seven shillings."
"Oh, Will, it's _wicked_!"
"Bosh! This is the time of our lives;" and he chaffed her again about
being a secret capitalist. "Blow the expense. Let the money fly. And,
Mav, I on'y borrow it. This is all my affair really."
"No, no. You'll spoil half my pleasure if you don't let me pay."
But his money or her money--what did it matter? They two were one,
reunited after a cruel, most bitterly cruel separation; her face was
flushed with joy more than with wine, and her love poured out of her
eyes like a stream of light.
They walked from the restaurant to Leicester Square, arm in arm, proud
and joyous, enjoying the lamplight and noise, not minding the airless
heat; but when they reached the entrance of the music hall--where he
had stood gaping, solitary and sad, a few nights ago--Mavis met with
disappointment.
"Oh," she said, "what a shame! They've changed the bill. Chirgwin's
name is gone. He was acting here Friday night.
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