They parted with a warm hand-grip, and Warburton turned toward Fulham Road.
When Warburton entered the shop the next morning, Allchin was on the lookout for him.
"I want to speak to you, sir," he said, "about this golden syrup we've had from Rowbottom's—"
Will listened, or seemed to listen, smiling at vacancy. To whatever Allchin proposed, he gave his assent, and in the afternoon, without daring to say a word he stole into freedom.
He was once more within sight of Albert Bridge. He walked or prowled—for half an hour close about Oakley Crescent. Then, over the bridge and into the Park. Back again, and more prowling. At last, weary and worn, to the counter and apron, and Allchin's talk about golden syrup.
The next day, just before sunset, he sauntered on the Embankment. He lifted up his eyes, and there, walking towards him, came the slim figure in grey.
"Not like the other evening," said Rosamund, before he could speak, her eyes turning to the dull, featureless west.
He held her hand, until she gently drew it away, and then was frightened to find that he had held it so long. From head to foot, he quivered, deliciously, painfully. His tongue suffered a semi-paralysis, so that, trying to talk, he babbled—something about the sweetness of the air—a scent from the gardens across the river—
"I've had a letter from Bertha Cross," said his companion, as she walked slowly on. "She comes home to-morrow."
"Bertha Cross—? Ah, yes, your friend—"