“Suppose you don’t!” Charlie snorted, sticking his chin out. “I’m off now. Must.”
They stood a moment together at the door of the shop, in the declining warmth of the summer afternoon, mutually satisfied.
“So-long!”
“So-long!”
The Sunday elegantly departed. Edwin had given his word, and he felt as he might have felt had surgeons just tied him to the operating-table. Nevertheless he was not ill-pleased with his own demeanour in front of Charlie. And he liked Charlie as much as ever. He should rely on Charlie as a support during this adventure into the worldly regions peopled by fine girls. He pictured this Hilda as being more romantic and strange than Janet Orgreave; he pictured her as mysteriously superior. And he was afraid of his own image of her.
At tea in the dismantled sitting-room, though he was going out to supper, he ate quite as much tea as usual, from sheer poltroonery. He said as casually as he could—
“By the way, Charlie Orgreave called this afternoon.”
“Did he?” said Maggie.
“He’s off back to London to-morrow. He would have me slip up there to-night to see him.”
“And shall you?”