“You seem happy,” remarked Alf, in a critical tone. But he was not offended; only tingled into desire for her by the strange gleam of merriment crossing her natural seriousness, the jubilant note of happy consciousness that the evening’s lovemaking had bred. Alf drew her more closely to his side, increasingly sure that he had done well. She was beginning to intrigue him. With an emotion that startled himself as much as it delighted Emmy, he said thickly in her ear, “D’you love me ... like this?”
xi
They neared the road in which the Blanchards lived: Emmy began to press forward as Alf seemed inclined to loiter. In the neighbourhood the church that had struck eight as they left the house began once again to record an hour.
“By George!” cried Alf. “Twelve ... Midnight!” They could feel the day pass.
They were at the corner, beside the little chandler’s shop which advertised to the moon its varieties of tea; and Alf paused once again.
“Half a tick,” he said. “No hurry, is there?”
“You’ll come in for a bit of supper,” Emmy urged. Then, plumbing his hesitation, she went on, in a voice that had steel somewhere in its depths. “They’ll both be gone to bed. She won’t be there.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that,” Alf declared, with unconvincing nonchalance.
“I’ll give you a drop of Pa’s beer,” Emmy said drily.
She took out a key, and held it up for his inspection.