"Sleep well, you poor, tired little person," he said, as he lighted the candle; "such little feet, such wicked little shoes, such a long, long, long walk."
"You must be tired, too," she said.
"Tired? with eleven miles, and your hand against my heart for eight of them? I shall remember that walk when we're two happy old people nodding across our own hearthrug at each other."
So he had felt it too; and if he had been married, how wicked it would have been! But he was not married—yet.
"I am not very, very tired, really," she said. "You see, it was my hand against—I mean your arm was a great help—"
"It was your hand," he said. "Oh, you darling!"
It was her hand, too, that was kissed there, beside the candlesticks, under the very eyes of the chambermaid and two acid English tourists.