In the four years Cynthia had scarcely seen him more than half a dozen times.
And now the war was over.

It was May again, and glorious May with the world all colour and song, the garden a wealth of blossom, and the nights clear and fragrant under moon or stars.

And here was Philip again--much more like the old Philip than he had been for years--looking at her with those enchanting blue eyes of his, and asking her to do something for him.

No wonder Cynthia's pulses were stirred.

The night before, she had come home depressed--very conscious that she had had no particular success with him at dinner, or afterwards.