“Come on,” she said with equal sharpness. “It’s only round the corner.”
She went on. His uneasiness growing, George followed her. In a few minutes they were in a quiet side street, and this time it was Cora who stopped.
“There’s a shop down there,” she said, pointing and looking at him with a curious intentness. “Go and buy a whip. A horsewhip will do. Something you can hide under your coat.” She thrust a pound note into his hand.
In spite of the sun and the hot pavement, George suddenly went cold. His instinct warned him to have nothing to do with this. It was as if he were being asked to cross a piece of ground which he knew was not solid and into which he was certain he would sink, and then suffocate.
“It’s Sunday,” he said, drawing away from her. “You can’t buy anything today.”
“Why do you think I came here?” she said impatiently. “They are all Jews down here. They closed yesterday.”
His mind darted like a startled mouse for a way of escape.
“I’m not buying it,” he said obstinately. “If you want it, you’ll have to get it yourself. I’m not having anything to do with it. I—I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”
She looked at his set, obstinate face and she suddenly smiled. “You’re quite right, George,” she said softly; “it’s stupid to wait. When two people are in love…” She pushed the pound note again into his hand. “Get the whip and let’s go hack. We’ve still time before he returns.”
George stared at her, seeing in her eyes a fainting desire: an unmistakable invitation of receptive, expectant femininity.