“Of course! With pleasure!” He seemed to implore her.
“It’s quite small,” she said, rising and going to the sideboard, on which lay a little brown-paper parcel.
His eye followed her. She picked up the parcel, glanced at it, and offered it to him.
“I’ll take it across on Monday night,” he said fervently.
“Thanks.”
She remained standing; he got up.
“No message or anything?” he suggested.
“Oh!” she said coldly, “I write, you know.”
“Well—” He made the gesture of departing. There was no alternative.
“We’re having very rough weather, aren’t we?” she said, with careless conventionality, as she took the lamp.