"You were forgetting me," murmured Teresa, as she took up her glass. "Confess that you're surprised to find how nice I really am. Had you forgotten that I'm pretty? Could you tell the colour of my eyes? You've got no memory, Basil, and therefore no soul. All you have is a habit." She smiled at him. "You've a habit of me, or a habit of getting on without me. Oh, I see that you could get on without me, and I shall never give you the chance again!"
"Will you swear to that?"
"By sun and moon I swear!"
"Well, I'm content then. I get on damn badly without you, that's the truth."
"But you get on. And I can't get on at all without you—not at all. I've found that out."
"Then I'm glad you went away, if that's true."
"Yes, only I knew it before."
They looked at one another, and drank a silent toast. To Teresa the world about her—the stifling night, the breathless air, the crowd of ordinary people—had taken on the colour and glow of the wine, a mysterious radiance. She was eating very little, but the food seemed good. The waiter in his musty black coat, with a tired napkin over his arm, seemed a pathetic and amiable human creature. She glanced at his grave face, as he awaited the order for the entrée, with sympathy. How dreary he must be of people choosing their entrée! But no—he was pleased to suggest
