She smiled faintly, and obeyed. Alfred eyed the hat, a simple affair, home-made. The gloves were of white silkette. Everything she wore seemed to be part of herself, dainty, ephemeral, easily crushed and soiled.
"Put your dear head on my shoulder. 'Twill be more cosy."
She hesitated, and did so. Her palely-pink cheek lay close to his lips. He said solemnly:
"I mind what you said, Fancy, about lying awake nights, wanting lots and lots of things. Tell me about the things you want."
"I c-c-can't."
Her voice had sunk to an attenuated whisper. He realised that she was trembling, and his own pulses throbbed with hers. He continued, more fluently, pressing her tighter to him:
"Are you wanting grand things?"
"Oh, no. Whatever made you think so?"
"Because, dear, there is something grand about you. It mazes me, when I think on't in my everyday way. You're Parson's parlourmaid, thank the Lord! and I'm a plain carrier, with no book-learning and rough manners. 'Tis like this, Fancy. I'm of the earth, and you're a lil' angel. 'Twouldn't surprise me to find wings growing on your dear back."
He touched her back gently, to make sure. It was satisfactory to find that wings, as yet, had not sprouted.