The place smelt musty, but of heaven. It was draped with cobwebs like celestial clouds; it was dark, but gradually the forms of rakes, hoes, spades and a watering-pot cleared themselves from the gloom and Charles’s head bloomed above his coat like a great pale flower.
She put out her hand and drew it back again. She found nothing to say. Outside the sun poured down its rays like fire. Henrietta’s head drooped under her big hat. She was content to stay here for ever if Charles would stay, too. Her body felt as though it were imponderable, she had no feet, she could not feel the hard handle of the wheelbarrow; she seemed to be floating blissfully, aware of nothing but that floating, yet a threat of laughter began to tickle her. It was absurd to sit like this, like strangers in an omnibus. The laughter rose to her throat and escaped: she floated no longer, but she was no less happy.
“What’s the matter?” asked the voice of Charles.
“So funny, sitting like this.”
“What else can we do?”
“You could turn round.”
“There’s not room for all our knees.”
She stood up with a little rustle and walked to the door. “No, it’s too hot out there,” she said, and returned to face him. “Charles,” she said in rather a high voice, “did you find your hat and stick that night?”
“What? Oh, yes,” and then irrelevantly he added, “I’ve just been made a partner.”
“Really?” She was always interested in practical things. “In Mr. Batty’s firm? How splendid! I didn’t know you were any good at business.”