“Charles, don’t speak so loud.”
“I don’t care. But I suppose you’re ashamed of me. Yes, of course, that’s it.”
“Don’t be silly,” Henrietta said, “and do be quick, because I want some chocolates myself.”
With the large box, white and crimson-ribboned and wrapped in paper, under his arm, he waited until she was served, and then they walked together down the street, made brilliant with the lights of many little shops.
“This is for you,” he said, “but I’ll carry it.”
“But this isn’t the way home.”
“No.” They turned back into the dimmer road bordering The Green.
“I suppose you wouldn’t walk round the hill?”
“I don’t mind.” She felt as she might have done in the company of some large, protective dog. He was there, saving her from the fear of molestation, but there was no need to speak to him, it was almost impossible to think consecutively of him, yet she did remind herself that a very long time ago, when she was young, he had said wonderful things to her. She had forgotten that fact in the stir of these last days.
“I got these chocolates for you,” he said again. “I thought perhaps that was the kind of thing I ought to do. I don’t know, and you can’t ask people because they’d laugh. Why didn’t you come to tea on Sunday?”