Then two other people got in with us and terminated my wooing for a time.
When we found ourselves alone together, walking towards Battersea, she had decided to be offended. I parted from her unforgiven and terribly distressed.
When we met again, she told me I must never say “that” again.
I had dreamt that to kiss her lips was ultimate satisfaction. But it was indeed only the beginning of desires. I told her my one ambition was to marry her.
“But,” she said, “you’re not in a position—What’s the good of talking like that?”
I stared at her. “I mean to,” I said.
“You can’t,” she answered. “It will be years”
“But I love you,” I insisted.
I stood not a yard from the sweet lips I had kissed; I stood within arm’s length of the inanimate beauty I desired to quicken, and I saw opening between us a gulf of years, toil, waiting, disappointments and an immense uncertainty.
“I love you,” I said. “Don’t you love me?”