"I'm so sorry," she said, "to be laughing like this. I don't know why I
do. It's just a bad ha--habit." And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe,
and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. "I really
must conquer it, it's too absurd," said she.

"Good heavens, Anne," cried Reggie, "I love to hear you laughing! I can't
imagine anything more--"

But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn't always laughing; it
wasn't really a habit. Only ever since the day they'd met, ever since that
very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to God he
understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn't matter where they
were or what they were talking about. They might begin by being as serious
as possible, dead serious--at any rate, as far as he was concerned--but
then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would glance at him, and a
little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips parted, her eyes
danced, and she began laughing.

Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn't herself
know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her
cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft peal
sounded, even while she cried, "I don't know why I'm laughing." It was a
mystery...

Now she tucked the handkerchief away.

"Do sit down," said she. "And smoke, won't you? There are cigarettes in
that little box beside you. I'll have one too." He lighted a match for
her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl ring
she wore. "It is to-morrow that you're going, isn't it?" said Anne.