He felt his face burn. He was angry with himself for being selfconscious about the bed, also conscious of the double meaning. He was sure she didn’t mean it in that way. It was just his mind.
“Well, so long as you’re comfortable,” he said, handing her a glass of beer. “I’ll unpack the sandwiches.”
He kept his back turned to her so that she should not see the furious blush on his face. It took him a minute or so to recover, and when he turned, she was lying on her side, propped up by her arm, one trousered leg hanging over the side of the bed, the other stretched out.
“Take my shoes off,” she said. “Or I’ll make the cover dirty.”
He did so, with clumsy, trembling fingers. But he enjoyed doing it, and he put the shoes on the floor under the bed, feeling an absurd tenderness towards them.
Although the window was wide open, it was hot in the little room. The storm clouds had now blotted out the sun, and it was dark.
“Shall I put the light on?” he asked. “I think we’re going to have some rain.”
“All right. I wish you’d sit down. You’re too big for this room, anyway.”
He put the sandwiches on a piece of paper within reach of her hand, turned on the light, and sat down by the window. He was secretly delighted to hear her refer to his size. George was proud of his height and strength.
“Why don’t you do something better than selling those silly hooks?” she asked abruptly.