“I’ll be as good as I can.”
They ran into Wilfred’s room. He closed the door, and slid the bolt.
“Oh, you mustn’t do that!” cried Mildred.
He told himself that her words didn’t signify anything. He believed that her lips were hungry for his. Wine had turned them crimson. So he merely looked at her, and walked away from the door. She avoided his look. They drifted to the worn bearskin in front of the fire, and sat down upon it, not touching each other. Now that they were alone together, behind the bolted door, constraint afflicted them again. They stared into the fire. Wilfred had a sense that precious moments were being wasted.
Finally Mildred said primly: “You have a nice room.”
“Like it?” said Wilfred. “It’s nice to have your own place.”
“I came in here once with Bella, when you were out,” she confessed.
“Did you?” he said delighted.
“I wanted to see if there were any pictures of girls about.”
“What did you care?”