The servant vanished, and Hilda came. She was as red as fire. He began hurriedly.
“When will you come to look over our works? To-morrow? I should like you to come.” He used a tone that said: “Now don’t let’s have any nonsense! You know you want to come.”
She frowned frankly. There they were in the hall, like a couple of conspirators, but she was frowning; she would not meet him half-way. He wished he had not permitted himself this caprice. What importance had a private oath? He felt ridiculous.
“What time?” she demanded, and in an instant transformed his disgust into delight.
“Any time.” His heart was beating with expectation.
“Oh no! You must fix the time.”
“Well, after tea. Say between half-past six and a quarter to seven. That do?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he murmured. “That’s all! Thanks. Good-night!”
He hastened away, with a delicate photograph of the palm of her hand printed in minute sensations on the palm of his.