Christopher had but a silver watch, an heirloom of considerable antiquity, and the chain was jet. Sunk of a sudden in profoundest gloom he led the way to the exit, walking like a shamefaced plebeian who had got into the room by mistake. Polly's spirits were higher than ever. Just beyond the electric glare she thrust her arm under that of her mute companion.
"You don't want me to git run over, do you?"
Parish had a thrill of satisfaction, but with difficulty he spoke.
"Let's get out of this crowd—beastly, isn't it?"
"I don't mind a crowd. I like it when I've someone to hang on by."
"Oh, I don't mind it, I like just what you like. What time did you say it was, Miss Sparkes?"
"Just eleven. Time I was gettin' 'ome. There'll be a bus at the corner."
"I hoped you were going to walk," urged Christopher timidly.
"S'pose I might just as well—if you'll take care of me."
It was a long time since Polly had been so gracious, so mild. All the way down Whitehall, across the bridge, and into Kennington Road she chatted of a hundred things, but never glanced at the one which held complete possession of Christopher's mind. Many times he brought himself all but to the point of mentioning it, yet his courage invariably failed. The risk was too great; it needed such a trifling provocation to disturb Polly's good humour. He perspired under the warmth of the night and from the tumult of his feelings.