“What isn’t real?” he asked.

“This:  you:  love.”

He reassured her with kisses.

“If it would only go on for ever!” she continued.  “I’m so hungry for happiness.”

“Why shouldn’t it?” he laughed.

“Will it be just the same when we’re married?”

“Eh!  Of course.”

“Sure?”

“So long as you don’t change,” he declared.

She laughed scornfully, while he sauntered down to the sea, cigarette in mouth.  Mavis settled herself luxuriously to watch the adored one through lazy, half-closed eyelids.  He had previously thrown away his straw hat; she saw how the wind wantoned in his light curls.  All her love seemed to well up into her throat.  She would have called to him, but her tongue refused speech; she was sick with love; she wondered if she would ever recover.  As he idled back, her eyes were riveted on his face.

“What’s up with little Mavis?” he asked carelessly, as he reached her side.

“I love you—­I love you—­I love you!” she whispered faintly.

He threw himself beside her to exclaim: 

“You look done.  Is it the heat?”

“Love—­love for you,” she murmured.

He kissed her neck, first lifting the soft hair behind her ear.  Her head rested helplessly on his shoulder.

“I’ll see about luncheon when little Mavis will let me,” he remarked.

“Don’t fidget:  I want to talk.”

“I’ll listen, provided you only talk about love.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about.”

“Good!”

“No one’s ever loved as we do?” she asked anxiously.

“No one.”

“Or ever will?”

“Never.”

“Sure?”

“Quite.”

“I’m sure too.  And nothing’s ever—­ever going to change it.”

“Nothing.  What could?”

“I love you.  Oh, how I love you!” she whispered, as she nestled closer to him.

“Don’t you believe I love you?” he asked hoarsely.

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“By kissing my eyes.”

As they sat, her arms stole about him; she wished that they were stronger, so that she could press him closer to her heart.  Presently, he unpacked the luncheon basket, spread the cloth, and insisted on making all the preparations for their midday meal.  She watched him cut up the cold chicken, uncork the claret, mix the salad—­this last an elaborate process.

“It’s delicious,” she remarked, when she tasted his concoction.

“That’s all I’m good for, Tommy rotten things of no real use to anyone.”

“But it is of use.  It’s added to the enjoyment of my lunch.”

“But there’s no money in it:  that’s what I should have said.”

He filled her glass and his with claret.  Before either of them drank, they touched each other’s glasses.

“Suggest a toast!” said Mavis.

“Love,” replied Perigal.