They walked westwards in silence. He felt as though he were by the side of a stranger, so far was he from having pierced the secret of that face.
As they approached one of the new glazed shelters, she said—
“Can’t we sit down a moment. I—I can’t talk standing up. I must sit down.”
They sat down, in an enclosed seat designed to hold four. And Edwin could feel the wind on his calves, which stretched beyond the screened side of the structure. Odd people passed dimly to and fro in front of them, glanced at them with nonchalant curiosity, and glanced away. On the previous evening he had observed couples in those shelters, and had wondered what could be the circumstances or the preferences which led them to accept such a situation. Certainly he could not have dreamed that within twenty-four hours he would be sitting in one of them with her, by her appointment, at her request. He thrilled with excitement—with delicious anxieties.
“Janet told you I was a widow,” Hilda began, gazing at the ferule of her umbrella, which gleamed on the ground.
“Yes.” Again she was surprising him.
“Well, we arranged she should tell every one that. But I think you ought to know that I’m not.”
“No?” he murmured weakly. And in one small unimportant region of his mind he reflected with astonishment upon the hesitating but convincing air with which Janet had lied to him. Janet!
“After what you’ve done”—she paused, and went on with unblurred clearness—“after what you’ve insisted on doing, I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. I’m not a widow. My husband’s in prison. He’ll be in prison for another six or seven years. That’s all I wanted to tell you.”
“I’m very sorry,” he breathed. “I’d no idea you’d had this trouble.” What could he say? What could anybody have said?