Mrs. Humphries, however, had no coffee, but when she read the disappointment of the young bride’s face she said she would see if she could not borrow some from her neighbor. And while she ran over the village street Muriel and Roland sat opposite each other in silence; her hands were folded in her lap, and she stared straight in front of her; he played with the spoon of the salt cellar, making little pyramids of salt round the edge.
At last the coffee arrived; its warmth momentarily cheered them and they tried to talk, to make fun of their friends, to scheme things for their future. But the brooding sense of embarrassment returned. Roland, in the intervals of occasional remarks, continued to erect his pyramids of salt.
“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t,” said Muriel impatiently; “you get on my nerves with your fidgeting.”
Roland apologized, dropped the spoon, and without occupation for his hands felt more uncomfortable than before. They continued a spasmodic conversation till Mrs. Humphries came in to tell them that she would be going to bed directly.
“We get up early here,” she said. And would they please to remember to blow out the lamp and not to turn down the wick, as her last lodger had done. She wished them a good-night, and said she would bring them a cup of tea when she called them in the morning. They heard her bolt the front door and fasten the shutter across the kitchen window, then tread heavily up the creaking stairs. For a little while they listened to her movements in the room. Then came the heavy creak of a bedstead.
They were alone in the silent house.
“Well, I suppose we must be going up,” he said.
“I suppose so.”
“Will you go up first and I’ll come when you’re ready?”
“All right.”