She took off her hat and sat leaning against him on the couch, so that she could not see his face.  And with his arm round her, she let herself go, deep into the waters of illusion; down-down, trying to forget there was a surface to which she must return; like a little girl she played that game of make-believe.  ‘He loves me-he loves me—­he loves me!’ To lose herself like that for, just an hour, only an hour; she felt that she would give the rest of the time vouchsafed to her; give it all and willingly.  Her hand clasped his against her heart, she turned her face backward, up to his, closing her eyes so as still not to see his face; the scent of the gardenia in his coat hurt her, so sweet and strong it was.

3

When with her hat on she stood ready to go, it was getting dark.  She had come out of her dream now, was playing at make-believe no more.  And she stood with a stony smile, in the half-dark, looking between her lashes at the mortified expression on his unconscious face.

“Poor Jimmy!” she said; “I’m not going to keep you from dinner any longer.  No, don’t come with me.  I’m going alone; and don’t light up, for heaven’s sake.”

She put her hand on the lapel of his coat.  “That flower’s gone brown at the edges.  Throw it away; I can’t bear faded flowers.  Nor can you.  Get yourself a fresh one tomorrow.”

She pulled the flower from his buttonhole and, crushing it in her hand, held her face up.

“Well, kiss me once more; it won’t hurt you.”

For one moment her lips clung to his with all their might.  She wrenched them away, felt for the handle blindly, opened the door, and, shutting it in his face, went slowly, swaying a little, down the stairs.  She trailed a gloved hand along the wall, as if its solidity could help her.  At the last half-landing, where a curtain hung, dividing off back premises, she stopped and listened.  There wasn’t a sound.  ’If I stand here behind this curtain,’ she thought, ‘I shall see him again.’  She slipped behind the curtain, close drawn but for a little chink.  It was so dark there that she could not see her own hand.  She heard the door open, and his slow footsteps coming down the stairs.  His feet, knees, whole figure came into sight, his face just a dim blur.  He passed, smoking a cigarette.  She crammed her hand against her mouth to stop herself from speaking and the crushed gardenia filled her nostrils with its cold, fragrant velvet.  He was gone, the door below was shut.  A wild, half-stupid longing came on her to go up again, wait till he came in, throw herself upon him, tell him she was going, beg him to keep her with him.  Ah! and he would!  He would look at her with that haggard pity she could not bear, and say, “Of course, Leila, of course.”  No!  By God, no!  “I am going quietly home,” she muttered; “just quietly home!  Come along, be brave; don’t be a fool!  Come along!” And she went down into the street: