She had, I suppose, the weakest head in the world, and in three minutes she was giddy and much comforted.  The noise seemed to clothe itself in a veil of music, there was hope in the shining brightness that shone from the bar.  The placards that looked like texts and were advertisements of various drinks, seemed like jokes to Jay.

“There are only dreams,” she thought very lucidly, “to keep our souls alive.  We are lucky if we get good dreams.  We’ll never get anything better.”

Through the glass between the patriotic posters that darkened the windows she could see the morbid colour of London air.

“Apart from dreams,” thought this busconducting Omar Khayyam, “there is nothing but disappointment.  We expected too much.  We expected satisfaction.  There is nothing in the world but second bests, but dreams are an excellent second best.  Our last attitude must be ’How interesting, but how very far from what I wanted....’”

The speed of time, and the hurry of life suddenly rushed upon her again.

“I must hurry,” she said.  “Or I shan’t have lived before I die.  I must hurry.”

“No ’urry, Jine,” said Mrs. Love.  “Let’s keep in the light for a bit.”

“Is this the only light left us, after a deluge of War?” thought Jay.  “It doesn’t matter, because of course War is hurrying too.  Rushing over our heads like the sea over drowned sailors.  But it will be over in a minute; this new kind of death must be a temporary death for temporary soldiers.  What do fifty years without friends matter?  You can hardly breathe before they’re done.”

She was dazzled and deafened.  She had emptied her glass, and she did not know what steps she took to fill it again.  Only she found it was suddenly full.

And in a minute she was on the path to the House by the Sea.  She had come by a new way.

There was less colour than usual about the sea, a certain air of guilt seemed to haunt the path.  And it was extraordinarily lonely, there seemed to be no promise of a Friend waiting at the other end of the path.

She sang the Loud Song to encourage herself, but she did not sing it very loudly.

There is no dream like my dream,
Even in Heaven. 
There is no Friend like my Friend,
Even in Heaven. 
There is no life like my life,
Even in Heaven.

A voice said, “For ’eaven’s sike, Jine, don’t begin to sing.”

Jay laughed.  “Treating me as if I were drunk ...” she thought.  She did not feel giddy any more.  She could see the familiar outline of the House against an unpretentious sky, and that calm shape steadied her.

No breath of sound came from the House.  The sky was grey, the sea was grey, there was no hint of sunlight.  As Jay came to the door she noticed that the honeysuckle in the bowl at the hall window was still there, but dead.  The wind had strewn the doorstep with leaves and straws and twigs, little refugees of the air.