My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. Then she had a baby and became as old as any really grown-up person, or older, and very dull. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. He had deliberately saved it for last. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine. Those were dreams.
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