“Have you been confirmed?”
“Of course. Ages ago. At school.”
“I wasn’t confirmed until I was sixteen. It made a great change in my life.”
“You must be very glad to have Gertrude back again.”
“I am.” He let the toasting-fork drop against the grate. Annette rushed at him:
“You mustn’t burn it. It’s for pa’s toast-and-water. It must never be burned.”
The tricksy spirit which is ever lying in wait for the moment when a man is swollen with vanity pounced on Bennett, and out of buffoonery and high spirits he dodged Annette and held the toasting-fork out of her reach. She clutched at it; he dodged again. In her eagerness she tripped and lunged against him. His arm went round her shoulder and he caught her arm. . . . They stood like that for a second and then he found that he could not let her go. His hand gripped tight and hurt her, but she too had passed from laughing excitement to another strange and melting emotion. . . .
She could see the door; he could not. She saw Gertrude, and wrenched away. He followed her, and in a curious strangled voice that he hardly knew for his own he cried:
“Annette . . . I . . .”
But Annette had rushed out of the kitchen and he was alone with Gertrude. He picked up the toasting-fork and held the bread before the glowing coals.