“Good-bye,” he said later, at the gate of No. 14, Gifford Road, and from the inflexion of his voice she perceived that their relations had undergone a subtle change....
She watched him as he disappeared round the corner. On a sudden impulse she raced after him and caught him up.
“George!” she said.
“Yes?”
“Will you be summoned, d’you think?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Well—I thought I’d tell you ... if you’re short of money through it ... I’ve got some.... I can lend it to you ... if you’re short, that is....”
“It’s awfully good of you,” he replied. Yet she knew he was thinking of something else.... Her running back to him had reopened the problem of farewell. He was debating: “Shall I kiss her again?” And she was wondering if he would. In a way she hoped not. There would be something cold-blooded in it if he did it too frequently. It would lack the fire, the spontaneity, the glorious impulse of that moment at Bishop’s Stortford railway station. It would assuredly be banal after what had happened. She was slightly afraid. She wished she had not run back to him. Nervousness assailed her.
“Good-night!” she cried, and fled back along Gifford Road. Behind her she heard his voice echoing her farewell and the sound of his footsteps beginning along the deserted highway. It was nearly two a.m....
Undressing in the tiny attic bedroom she discovered a dark bruise on her right shoulder. It must have been where he lurched sideways against her just after the collision. She had not felt it. She had not known anything about it....