"Tired, Elfkin?" he whispered.
"A little," she said.
The air was cold and she snuggled close to him for warmth; he took her hand in his and held it, pressing it tenderly.
They had a three-mile drive through the quiet English countryside.
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 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 humour, 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.