“But you—aren’t you going somewhere here?”
“No—I—I—I saw the porter put you in—and I thought—at least—anyway you will walk, won’t you?”
They walked. When they reached Beechwood Common, he said: “Won’t you take my arm?” And she took it. Her hands were ungloved; the other hand was full of silver may and bluebells. The sun shot level shafts of gold between the birch trees across the furze and heather.
“How beautiful it is!” she said.
“We’ve known each other three months,” said he.
“But I’ve seen you every day, and we’ve talked for hours and hours in those everlasting trains,” she said, as if in excuse.
“I’ve seen you every day for longer than that; the first time was on the 3rd of October.”
“Fancy remembering that!”
“I have a good memory.”
A silence.