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"But I had been going to eat another crumpet."

"Oh, in that case it would be rather waste—No, it's no good; I'd hate you to give me serious thoughts."

"How often do you have them?"

"Often—I swear I do."

"How old are you, Eddie?"

"Twenty-three."

"Goodness," she said gravely, taking another crumpet.

While she ate, Eddie studied her gleamingly. He said: "You've got a goofy but an inspired face. Understanding just washes over it. Why am I ever with anybody but you? Whenever I talk to other people, they jeer in their minds and think I am being dramatic. Well, I am dramatic—why not? I am dramatic. The whole of Shakespeare is about me. All the others, of course, feel that too, which is why they are all dead nuts on Shakespeare. But because I show it when they haven't got the nerve to, they all jump on me. Blast their silly faces—"

While she ate, she kept her eyes on his forehead, at present tense with high feeling, but ventured to say nothing. Her meticulous observation of him made her like somebody at a play in a foreign language of which they know not one word—the action has to be followed as closely as one can. Just a shade unnerved by her look he broke off and said: "Do I ever bore you, darling?"

"No—I was just thinking that, except for Lilian, this is the first conversation with anybody I've had. Since I came to London, I mean. It's much more the sort of conversation I have in my head."

"It's a lot more cheerful than the conversations in my head. In those, reproaches are being showered on me. I don't get on at all well with myself—But I thought you said you talked to Matchett at nights?"

"Yes—but she's not in London, she's in the house. And lately, she's been more cold with me."

Eddie's face darkened at once. "Because of me, I suppose?"

Portia hesitated. "She never much likes my friends."

Annoyed by her fencing, he said: "You haven't got any friends."

"There's Lilian."

He scowled this aside. "No, the trouble with her is, she's a jealous old cow. And a snob, like all servants. You've been too nice to her."

"She was so nice to my father."

"I'm sorry, darling—But listen: for God's sake never talk about me. Never to anyone."

"How could I, Eddie? I never possibly would."

"I could kill people when I think what they would think."

"Oh Eddie, mind—you've splashed tea on my diary! Matchett only knows I know you because she came on your letter."

"You must not leave those about!"

"I didn't: she found it where it was put."

"Where?"

"Under my pillow."

"Darling!" said Eddie, melting for half a moment.

"I was there all the time, and she didn't do more than hold it. All she knows is, I've had a letter from you."

"But she knows where it was."

"I'm sure she would never tell. She likes knowing things they don't, about me."

"I daresay you're right: she's got a mouth like a trap. And I've seen her looking at Anna. She'll keep this to use in her own way. Oh, do beware of old women—you've no notion how they batten on things. Lock everything up; hide everything! Don't bat an eyelid, ever."

"As if this was a plot?"

"We are a plot. Keep plotting the whole time."

She looked anxious and said: "But then, shall you and I have any time left?"

"Left for what, do you mean?"

"I mean, for ourselves."

He swept this aside and said: "Plot—It's a revolution: it's our life. The whole pack are against us. So hide, hide everything."

"Why?"

"You've no idea what people are like."

Her mind went back. "Major Brutt noticed, I think."

"Idealistic old wart-hog! And Thomas caught us—I told you we should never have gone in." "But you did say you wanted my diary." "Well, we were mad. You only wait till Anna has had a word with Brutt. Shall I show you the talk I and Anna will have then?" Eddie posed himself, leaning sideways on one elbow with Anna's rather heavy nonchalant grace. He drew his fingers idly across his forehead, putting back an imaginary wave of hair. Seeming to let the words drop with a charming reluctance, he began: " 'Now Eddie,