And it was quite dark when the dogcart eventually drew up before a small cottage and a kindly, plump woman came out to meet them.
“Ah, there you be!” she said. “I was just expecting you. The supper’s all laid out, and I’ve only got to put the eggs on to boil, and there’s some hot water in the bedroom.”
Roland thanked her, took down the two suitcases, and followed Muriel and her up the narrow creaking stairs.
“There,” she said, opening a door. “There you are. And if you want anything you ring that bell on the table. I’ll just run down and get on with the supper.”
Roland and Muriel were left alone in a small room, the greater part of which was occupied by a large double bed, over which had been hung, with a singular lack of humor, a Scriptural admonition: “Love one another.” The ceiling was low, the window was overhung with ivy. In midsummer it would be a stuffy room. They looked at each other; they were alone for the first time, and they did not know what to do. There was an awkward silence.
“I suppose you’ll want to tidy up,” said Roland.
“Well, of course,” she answered a little petulantly.
“All right, then; I’ll go downstairs. Come and tell me when you’re ready.”
She was standing between him and the door, and as he passed her he made an ill-judged attempt to take her in his arms. She was tired and she was dusty, and she did not want to be kissed just then. She shook herself away from him. And this mistake increased Roland’s despondency, accentuated his nervousness, his vague distaste for this summoning of emotion to order, at a fixed date and at a fixed hour.
Supper was not a cheerful meal; at first they attempted to be jovial, but their enthusiasm was forced, and long silences began to drift into their conversation. They grew increasingly embarrassed and tried to prolong the meal as long as possible. Muriel was not fond of coffee and rarely took it, but when Roland asked her if she would like some she welcomed the suggestion: “Oh, yes, do.”