Another interlude. They grew calmer, more sedate. It was so undeniably
true they loved one another that the fact was becoming venerable with
age. Iris was perhaps the first to recognize its quiet certainty.

"As I cannot get you to talk reasonably," she protested, "I must appeal
to your sympathy. I am hungry, and oh, so thirsty."

The girl had hardly eaten a morsel for her midday meal. Then she was
despondent, utterly broken-hearted. Now she was filled with new hope.
There was a fresh motive in existence. Whether destined to live an hour
or half a century, she would never, never leave him, nor, of course,
could he ever, ever leave her. Some things were quite impossible--for
example, that they should part.

Jenks brought her a biscuit, a tin of meat, and that most doleful cup
of champagne.

"It is not exactly _frappé_," he said, handing her the insipid
beverage, "but, under other conditions, it is a wine almost worthy to
toast you in."

She fancied she had never before noticed what a charming smile he had.

"'Toast' is a peculiarly suitable word," she cried. "I am simply
frizzling. In these warm clothes----"

She stopped. For the first time since that prehistoric period when she
was "Miss Deane" and he "Mr. Jenks" she remembered the manner of her
garments.