They climbed the second flight, slowly. Constance was out of breath.
“Oh, a fire! How nice!” cried Sophia. “But why did you go to all that trouble? I told you not to.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Constance, raising the gas in the bedroom. Her tone implied that bedroom fires were a quite ordinary incident of daily life in a place like Bursley.
“Well, my dear, I hope you’ll find everything comfortable,” said Constance.
“I’m sure I shall. Good night, dear.”
“Good night, then.”
They looked at each other again, with timid affectionateness. They did not kiss. The thought in both their minds was: “We couldn’t keep on kissing every day.” But there was a vast amount of quiet, restrained affection, of mutual confidence and respect, even of tenderness, in their tones.
About half an hour later a dreadful hullaballoo smote the ear of Constance. She was just getting into bed. She listened intently, in great alarm. It was undoubtedly those dogs fighting, and fighting to the death. She pictured the kitchen as a battlefield, and Spot slain. Opening the door, she stepped out into the corridor.
“Constance,” said a low voice above her. She jumped. “Is that you?”
“Yes.”