a little fat and slightly bald, and he’s got three pips up, and has had them for a long time.  Well, look at them.  He’s searching her eyes, he is, Peter, really.  That’s how it’s done:  you just watch.  And he doesn’t know if he’s eating pea-soup or oyster-sauce.  And she’s hoping her hat is drooping just right, and that he’ll notice her ring is on the wrong finger, and how nice one would look in the right place.  To do her justice, she isn’t thinking much about dinner, either; but that’s sinful waste, Peter, in the first place, and bad for one’s tummy in the second.  However, they’re sentimental, they are, and there’s a fortune in it.  If they could only bring themselves to do just that for fifteen minutes at the Alhambra every night, they’d be the most popular turn in London.”

“That’s all very well,” said he; “but if you eat so fast and talk at the same time, you’ll pay for it very much as you think they will.  Have you finished?”

“No, I haven’t.  I want cheese-straws, and I shall sit here till I get them or till the whole of London zigzags round me.”

“I say,” said Peter to their waitress, “if you possibly can, fetch us cheese-straws now.  Not too many, but quickly.  Can you?  The lady won’t go without them, and something must be done.”

“Wouldn’t the management wait if you telephoned, Peter dear?” inquired Julie sarcastically.  “Just say who you are, and they sure will.  If the chorus only knew, they’d go on strike against appearing before you came, or tear their tights or something dreadful like that, so that they couldn’t come on.  Yes, now I am ready.  One wee last little drop of the bubbly—­I see it there—­and I’ll sacrifice coffee for your sake.  Give me a cigarette, though.  Thanks.  And now my wrap.”

She rose, the cigarette in her fingers, smiling at him.  Peter hastily followed, walking on air.  He was beginning to realise how often he failed to understand Julie, and to see how completely she controlled her apparently more frivolous moods; but he loved her in them.  He little knew, as he followed her out, the tumult of thoughts that raced through that little head with its wealth of brown hair.  He little guessed how bravely she was already counting the fleeting minutes, how resolutely keeping grip of herself in the flood which threatened to sweep her—­how gladly!—­away.

A good revue must be a pageant of music, colour, scenery, song, dance, humour, and the impossible.  There must be good songs in it, but one does not go for the songs, any more than one goes to see the working out of a plot.  Strung-up men, forty-eight hours out of the trenches, with every nerve on edge, must come away with a smile of satisfaction on their faces, to have a last drink at home and sleep like babies.  Women who have been on nervous tension for months must be able to go there, and allow their tired senses to drink in the feast of it all, so that they too may go home and sleep.  And in a sense their evening meant all this to Peter and Julie; but only in a sense.