A young man and woman meet in a wayside hotel during lunch hour to express their love. In order to be discreet, he has fabricated a story of marriage, children, distant home, to satisfy the concierge The woman is confused when confronted with this fabrication, and as she unravels the matter in her mind the enchantment of love begins to fade. The room is dilapidated, the concierge an intruding bore, and it's too cold to take off one's overcoat. The result is that she leaves at the end of the hour, never to see him again. The bloom of love is dead. In brilliant dialogue by one of England's best writers.