'I am going your way,' he said. 'Can't I see you home?'
He was going her way: the idea of going her way had occurred to him suddenly as a beautiful idea.
Instead of replying, she looked at him. She looked at him sadly out of the white shawl which enveloped her head and her golden hair, and nodded.
There was a four-wheeler at the kerb, and they entered it and sat down side by side in that restricted compartment, and the fat old driver, with his red face popping up out of a barrel consisting of scores of overcoats and aprons, drove off. It was very foggy, but one could see the lamp-posts.
Geraldine coughed.
'These fogs are simply awful, aren't they?' he remarked.
She made no answer.
'It isn't often they begin as early as this,' he proceeded; 'I suppose it means a bad winter.'
But she made no answer.
And then a sort of throb communicated itself to him, and then another, and then he heard a smothered sound. This magnificent creature, this independent, experienced, strong-minded, superior, dazzling creature was crying—was, indeed, sobbing. And cabs are so small, and she was so close. Pleasure may be so keen as to be agonizing: Henry discovered this profound truth in that moment. In that moment he learnt more about women than he had learnt during the whole of his previous life. He knew that her sobbing had some connection with A Question of Cubits, but he could not exactly determine the connection.