“But never mind,” said Michael. “I’ll hold you close to me all the way to London.”
They found their driver and told him where to go. The man was very much pleased to think he had a fare all the way to London, and asked Michael if he wanted to drive fast.
“No, rather slow, if anything,” said Michael.
The fragrant miles went slowly past, and all the way they drove between the white orchards, and all the way like a spray of bloom Lily was his. Past the orchards they went, past the twinkling roadside houses, past the gates where the shadows of lovers fell across the road, past the breaking limes and lilac, past the tulips stiff and dark in the moonlight, through the high narrow street of Brentford, past Kew Bridge and the slow trams with their dim people nodding, through Chiswick and into Hammersmith where a piano-organ was playing and the golden streets were noisy. It was Doris who opened the door.
“Eleven o’clock,” she said. “Mother’s rather angry.”
“You’d better not come in,” said Lily to Michael. “She’ll be all right again by next week, when you come back.”
“Oh, no, I’ll come in,” he insisted. “I’d rather explain why we’re so late.”
“It’s no use arguing with mother when she’s unreasonable,” said Lily. “I shall go up to bed; I don’t want to have a row.”
“That’s right,” Doris sneered. “Always take the shortest and easiest way. You are a coward.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Lily, and without another word went upstairs.