He took both her hands in his and kissed them.

"It's several years since I expected anything," he answered. "Now--I
only hope."

Nan smiled.

"Come in, pessimist, and don't begin by being epigrammatic on the very
doorstep. Tea? Or coffee? I'm afraid the flat doesn't run to
whisky-and-soda."

"Coffee, please--and your conversation--will suffice. 'A Loaf of
Bread . . . and Thou beside me singing in the Wilderness' . . ."

"You'd much prefer a whisky-and-soda and a grilled steak to the loaf
and--the et ceteras," observed Nan cynically. "There's a very wide gulf
between what a man says and what he thinks."

"There's a much wider one between what a man wants and what he gets," he
returned grimly.

"You'll soon have all you want," she answered. "You're well on the way
to fame already."

"Do you know," he remarked irrelevantly, "your eyes are exactly like blue
violets. I'd like to paint you, Nan."

"Perhaps I'll sit for you some day," she replied, handing him his coffee.
"That is, if you're very good."