“Why not?”

“You might run off.”

He laughed.  By the time they reached the shop, Mavis had quite emerged from the sobriety of her demeanour to become an approximation to her old light-hearted self.

“That’s how I love to see you,” remarked Windebank.

When they entered the shop, Mavis’ face fell.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, all concern for his wife.

“Don’t you smell paraffin?”

“What of it?”

“It takes me back to Pimlico—­that night when we went shopping together—­you bought me a shilling’s worth.”

“I wish someone would come; then we’d get out of it,” remarked Windebank.

But his wife did not appear to listen; she was lost in thought.  Then she clung desperately to his arm.

“What is it?” he asked tenderly.

“It’s love I want; love.  Nothing else matters.  Love me:  love me:  love me.  A little love will help me to forget.”