THEY DIDN’T SAY A word as they made their way down the lane toward Honeysuckle Cottage. They rarely did. Philip’s hand was warm around hers. The nights were turning chillier now, and Iris could see her breath and Philip’s merging in the air. By the time they reached the great elm and ducked behind the trunk to say good-bye, safe from curious childish eyes, the sky was streaked with pink and the sun was inevitable. Philip leaned back against the bark and drew her against him.

“Vivian’s leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I can’t stay the night anymore.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t decided about school yet. It will break their hearts to go back up to London, though, after all this.”

“You know you can have the cottage as long as you want. The local grammar is excellent.”

She kissed the tip of his nose. “We’ll talk about it soon, all right? I have to speak to Sasha first. We can’t just go on like this, nothing settled.”

“Whatever you decide.”

“You’re so good,” she whispered, “so good to me. I wish I could give you more.”

“You’ve already given me more than I dared to imagine.”

“This is so impossible, this sneaking around. We belong together, look at us.”

“Shh. I’m a patient man. If it takes years, I’ll wait.”

She said impetuously, “I hope you’ve given me a baby. If we’ve made a baby together then everything will be simple.”

“Not quite so simple—”

“Don’t you remember what you said, our first night? You said you would give me whatever I wanted, whatever I wished for, and I told you I wanted another baby, a girl this time, and you said—”

“I said I couldn’t promise a girl—”

“—Nature being so fickle, your exact words—”

“—but I would do my best for you.”

“Which you certainly have.”

Philip grinned. On a face like his, the effect was wonderfully fiendish. Iris knew she should go into the house, but she couldn’t bring herself to step away. This was not enough for either of them. There were not enough hours between nine in the evening and five in the morning to talk and laugh and read—drink champagne or brandy or cocoa and lie together in Philip’s bed, fingertips waltzing with fingertips—not enough days in the week that Iris could steal over from Honeysuckle Cottage and steal back, a little more happy, a little more in love, a little more herself. Iris couldn’t go back to the old way of doing things any more than she could reoccupy the body of the old Iris. Even now, just thinking about sleeping with Philip—remembering the night before—she turned her lips to his shirt and wriggled her tongue between a pair of buttons. Philip took her by the arms and pushed her sternly away.