He had pulled of his thick motoring-glove, and was holding her hand in a firm, lingering clasp, which she quickly cut short, tucking both her hands into her ulster pockets, and standing up very straight and slim in the lamplight.
“I’ll have to go though the confessional now,” she told him, “and sit on the stool of repentance for supper.”
“No; don’t repent; come again.” He moved nearer.
“I’m naturally a very busy man, and I can’t make engagements offhand, but I can easily get at you on the telephone. Will you come some afternoon, about half-past four?”
“I think you are very rash. How do you know I shall not bring the colours, and wave them wildly down the street, shouting ‘Votes for Women’?”
“I’ll risk it. Will you come?”
She moved away, latch-key in hand.
“I don’t know. I won’t promise, anyway. Good-bye, and my best thanks.”
There was a rush of light through an open door, a last bright smile, and he found himself alone in the street.