I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. 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. A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. "You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion; "but you shall reap the reward of your treachery. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. " "We shall see," replied Jack. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true.
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