"Of me?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"Why? Because you think I'm mad?"

"No. You're not mad. It's not that."

"But still you are afraid. Why?"

"I want to be let alone. I don't want my-my way of life disturbed. Oh! I don't know what I'm talking about. And I must go."

"But you'll dine with me-when? To-morrow? The day after? I shall wait here in London until you do."

"To-night, then."

"And get it over!" He laughed and suddenly, to her own surprise, she laughed with him. Then, her gravity restored, she went quickly to the door. Llewellyn stood aside to let her pass, and opened the door for her.

"Windsor Hotel, eight o'clock. I'll be waiting."

Laura sat before her mirror in the bedroom of her tiny Sat. There was a queer smile on her lips as she studied her face. In her right hand she held a lipstick, and she looked down now at the name engraved on the gilt case. Fatal Apple.

She wondered again at the unaccountable impulse that had taken her so suddenly into the luxurious perfumed interior of the shop that she passed every day.

The assistant had brought out a selection of lipsticks, trying them for her to see on the back of a slim hand with long exotic fingers and deep carmine nails.

Little smears of pink and cerise and scarlet and maroon and cyclamen, some of them hardly distinguishable from one another except by their names-such fantastic names they seemed to Laura.

Pink Lightning, Buttered Rum, Misty Coral, Quiet Pink, Fatal Apple.

It was the name that attracted her, not the colour.

Fatal Apple… it carried with it the suggestion of Eve, of temptation, of womanhood.

Sitting before the mirror, she carefully painted her lips.

Baldy! She thought of Baldy, pulling up bindweed and lecturing her so long ago. What had he said "Show you're a woman, hang out your flag, go after your man…"

Something like that. Was that what she was doing now?

And she thought: 'Yes, it's exactly that. Just for this evening, just for this once, I want to be a woman, like other women, decking herself out, painting herself up to attract her man. I never wanted to before. I didn't think I was that kind of person. But I am, after all. Only I never knew it.'

And her impression of Baldy was so strong that she could almost fancy him standing behind her, nodding his great heavy head in approval, and saying in his gruff voice:

"That's right, young Laura. Never too late to learn."

Dear Baldy…

Always, all through her life, there had been Baldy, her friend. Her one true and faithful friend.

Her mind went back to his deathbed, two years ago. They had sent for her, but when she had got there the doctor had explained that he was probably too far gone to recognise her. He was sinking fast and was only semiconscious.

She had sat beside him, holding his gnarled hand between her own, watching him.

He had lain very still, grunting occasionally and puffing as though same inner exasperation possessed him. Muttered words came fitfully from his lips.

Once he opened his eyes, looked at her without recognition and said: "Where is the child? Send for her, can't you? And don't talk tommy-rot about its being bad for her to see anyone die. Experience, that's all… And children take death in their stride, better than we do."

She had said:

"I'm here, Baldy. I'm here."

But closing his eyes he had only murmured indignantly:

"Dying, indeed? I'm not dying. Doctors are all alike-gloomy devils. I'll show him."

And then he had relapsed into his half-waking state, with the occasional murmur that showed where his mind was wandering, amongst the memories of his life.

"Damned fool-no historical sense…" Then a sudden chortle! "Old Curtis and his bone meal. My roses better than his any day."

Then her name came.

"Laura-ought to get her a dog…"

That puzzled her. A dog? Why a dog?

Then, it seemed, he was speaking to his housekeeper:

"-and clear away all that disgusting sweet stuff-all right for a child-makes me sick to look at it…"

Of course-those sumptuous teas with Baldy, that had been such an event of her childhood. The trouble that he had taken. The?clairs, the meringues, the macaroons… Tears came into her eyes.

And then suddenly his eyes were open, and he was looking at her, recognising her, speaking to her. His tone was matter of fact:

"You shouldn't have done it, young Laura," he said reprovingly. "You shouldn't have done it, you know. It will only lead to trouble."

And in the most natural manner in the world, he had turned his head slightly on his pillow and had died.

Her friend…

Her only friend.

Once again Laura looked at her face in the mirror. She was startled, now, at what she saw. Was it only the dark crimson line of the lipstick outlining the curve of her lips? Full lips-nothing really ascetic about them. Nothing ascetic about her in this moment of studying herself.

She spoke, half aloud, arguing with someone who was herself and yet not herself.

"Why shouldn't I try to look beautiful? Just this once? Just for to-night? I know it's too late, but why shouldn't I know what it feels like. Just to have something to remember…"

He said at once: "What's happened to you?"

She returned his gaze equably. A sudden shyness had invaded her, but she concealed it. To regain her poise, she studied him critically.

She liked what she saw. He was not young-actually he looked older than his years (which she knew from the Press accounts of him)-but there was a boyish awkwardness about him that struck her as both strange and oddly endearing. He showed an eagerness allied with timidity, a queer, hopeful expressiveness, as though the world and everything in it was fresh and new to him.

"Nothing's happened to me." She let him help her off with her coat.

"Oh, but it has. You're different-quite different-from what you were this morning!"

She said brusquely: "Lipstick and make-up, that's all!"

He accepted her word for it.

"Oh, I see. Yes, I did think your mouth was paler than most women's usually are. You looked rather like a nun."

"Yes-yes-I suppose I did."

"You look lovely now, really lovely. You are lovely, Laura. You don't mind my saying so?"

She shook her head. "I don't mind." 'Say it often,' her inner self was crying. 'Say it again and again. It's all I shall ever have.' "We're having dinner up here-in my sitting-room. I thought you'd prefer it. But perhaps-you don't mind?"

He looked at her anxiously.

"I think it's perfect."

"I hope the dinner will be perfect. I'm rather afraid it won't. I've never thought much about food until now, but I would like it to be just right for you."

She smiled at him as she sat down at the table, and he rang for the waiter.

She felt as though she was taking part in a dream.

For this wasn't the man who had come to see her this morning at the Foundation. This was a different man altogether. A younger man, callow, eager, unsure of himself, desperately anxious to please. She thought suddenly: 'This was what he was like when he was in his twenties. This is something he's missed-and he's gone back into the past to find it.'

For a moment sadness, desperation, swept over her. This wasn't real. This was a might-have-been that they were acting out together. This was young Llewellyn and young Laura. It was ridiculous and rather pathetic, unsubstantial in time, but oddly sweet.

They dined. The meal was mediocre, but neither of them noticed it. Together they were exploring the Pays du Tendre. They talked, laughed, hardly noticed what they said.