[_She fumbles for the arm-holes of her coat. He goes to
her quickly and they stand holding the coat between them
and looking at each other._

PHILIP.

[_After a silence._] You--you're determined?

OTTOLINE.

Determined.

PHILIP.

You--you _can't_ be!

Ottoline.

I am--I swear I am.

PHILIP.

[_After a further silence._] Then it _is_--as you said last night----?

OTTOLINE.

What did I say last night? I forget.

PHILIP.

[_In a husky voice._] _C'est fini--apres tout!_

OTTOLINE.

[_Inclining her head._] _C'est fini--apres tout._

PHILIP.

[_Bitterly._] Ho! Ho, ho, ho! [_Another pause._] So when--when April
comes--we--we sha'n't----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Lowering her eyes--all gentleness again._] We sha'n't walk under the
trees in the Champs-Elysees, Phil----

PHILIP.

Nor in the Allee de Longchamp--where we----

OTTOLINE.

No, nor in the Allee de Longchamp.

PHILIP.

[_Releasing her coat and thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets._]
Somebody else'll gulp the milk at the Cafe d'Armenonville----!

OTTOLINE.

And at the Pre-Catalan----

PHILIP.

And there'll be no one to gaze sentimentally at my old windows in the
Rue Soufflot----

OTTOLINE.

[_Softly._] _Quarante-trois bis._ [_Sighing._] No one.

PHILIP.

[_With a hollow laugh._] Ha, ha, ha! _C'est fini--apres tout!_

OTTOLINE.

[_Firmly._] _C'est fini--apres tout._ [_She holds out her coat to him
and he helps her into it. Suddenly, while her back is turned to him, he
utters a guttural cry and grips her shoulders savagely. She turns in
surprise, her hand to her shoulder._] Oh, Phil----!

PHILIP.

[_Pointing at her._] I see! I see! I see the end of it! You'll marry
Barradell! You'll marry the fellow who's cooling his heels down below
in South Square!

OTTOLINE.

[_Placidly, fastening her coat._] I may.