her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her
figure to attract, and now that she was--

"On the shelf,
On the shelf,
Boys, boys, I'm on the shelf,"

she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional
bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still
issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare.

She sat down on Leonard's knee, and began to fondle
him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her
weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything.
Then she said, "Is that a book you're reading?" and he said,
"That's a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp.
Margaret's card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and
he murmured, "Bookmarker."

"Len--"

"What is it?" he asked, a little wearily, for she only
had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.

"You do love me?"

"Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!"

"But you do love me, Len, don't you?"