At first they had given one another long, semi-surreptitious looks, then they had tentatively begun an exchange of jokes and personalities, until the day when Artie had suddenly failed in repartee and, when derided by Rose, had replied, flushing deeply:
“You can say anything you jolly well please to me. I—I like it.”
For days after that she had avoided him, while a new delicious consciousness was awakened between them, enhanced by the necessity of behaving as usual in front of Uncle Alfred.
At last one evening, just as Artie was putting up the shutters for the night, Rose, having watched Uncle Alfred leave the house by the side-door, had slipped into the shop and pretended to be very much surprised at Artie’s presence.
“Hallo! Haven’t you finished yet?”
“Just. I say——”
“Well?”
“I say, are you offended with me about anything?”
“What makes you ask?”
“You’ve seemed different, somehow, lately. More stand-off, like.”