He kisses her.
"Good morning, Nancy."
Her arms go round him.
"Good morning, dearest."
"It isn't that I don't want to get up, really," she explains presently.
"It's only that I like lying here and thinking about all the things that
are going to happen."
"We are lucky, you know. Lordy bless the American Express."
"And my job." She smiles and he winces.
"Oh, Ollie, _dear_."
"I was so damn silly," says Oliver muffledly.
"Both of us. But now it doesn't matter. And we're both of us going to work
and be very efficient at it--only now we'll have time and together and
Paris to do all the things we really wanted to do. You _are_ going to be a
great novelist, Oliver, you know--"
"Well, you're going to be the foremost etcher--or etcheress--since
Whistler--there. But, oh, Nancy, I don't care if I write great novels--or
any novels--or anything else--just now."
She mocks him pleasantly. "Why, Ollie, Ollie, Your Art?"
"Oh, _damn_ my art--I mean--well, I don't quite mean that. But this is
life."
"Just as large and twice as natural," says Nancy quoting, but for once
Oliver is too interested with living to be literary.
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