"If they have pies there." Jenny had not meant that: she had meant only
that her sensations were those of supreme contentment. "Give me the old
earth; and supper with Jenny!"

"Really?" Jenny was all brimming with delight.

"What will you have to drink? Claret? Burgundy?" Keith was again upon
his feet. He poured out a large glass of red wine and laid it before
her. Jenny saw with marvel the reflections of light on the wine and of
the wine upon the tablecloth. She took a timid sip, and the wine ran
tingling into her being.

"High life," she murmured. "Don't make me tipsy!" They exchanged
overjoyed and intimate glances, laughing.

There followed trifle. Trifle had always been Jenny's dream; and this
trifle was her dream come true. It melted in the mouth; its flavours
were those of innumerable spices. She was transported with happiness at
the mere thought of such trifle. As her palate vainly tried to unravel
the secrets of the dish, Keith, who was closely observant, saw that she
was lost in a kind of fanatical adoration of trifle.

"You like it?" he asked.

"I shall never forget it!" cried Jenny. "Never as long as I live. When
I'm an old ... great-aunt...." She had hesitated at her destiny. "I
shall bore all the kids with tales about it. I shall say 'That night on
the yacht ... when I first knew what trifle meant....' They won't half
get sick of it. But I shan't."