“Oh, good-night,” he said, holding out his hand.
She put her fingers—rougher, but warmer—into his for the first time.
“Good-night,” she said, softly.
He did not let her hand go immediately. At the last instant he was invaded by an indefinite conviction that something—he knew not what—had still to be done or said. He stood silent on the little platform.
As if echoing his thought, “Haven’t you forgot something?” she asked.
His heart leaped violently with a thrilling suggestion. He looked into her quizzing eyes. They were on a level with his own, her shorter figure having the advantage of the raised threshold.
“I thought you came to speak to me about a Frenchman?” she went on.
He was relieved and disappointed.
“Of course; what a fool I am! I haven’t said a word about him.”
“Well, it’s too late now. I can’t stand talking here; the neighbors might see us.”