They went to the pub at the corner of the street and leaned up against the bar. They ordered pints of bitter and sausage rolls.
“This is fun, isn’t it?” George said, in seventh heaven.
She flicked a flake of pastry from her mouth and grimaced. “Think so?” she said, biting into the sausage roll again.
“I suppose it’s nothing to you,” he said, hurt; “only I’ve been lonely for a long time. Having a girl like you for company means a lot to me.”
She raised the beer glass and drank, gazing at him with thoughtful eyes over the top of it. She put the glass down and drew a deep breath.
“You’re a sentimental fool, aren’t you?”
He looked to see if she were jeering at him, but she was serious in an unexpectedly kind way.
“I suppose I am.” He brooded, looking down at his shoes. “But there’s nothing wrong in that. I know people sneer at sentimentality, but they’re usually pretty unhappy themselves.”
She wasn’t listening to him. Her attention was centred on a short man who had just come in. George followed her gaze. He recognized the man. It was Little Ernie.
Little Ernie joined them. “My word!” he said, staring at George, “has she been making love to you?”