"I don't think I should have guessed it now," he said, "only for the spring. To think you are Mary!" He lingered over the name.
"I am sorry about the Clumber. You shall have another when you ask for it."
It was a long drive westward. They got down at Kensington Church, and went up the hill. Close by the Carmelites they turned into a little alley. The lit doorway of a high building of flats faced them.
"Now, you must come no farther," she said, turning to him and holding out her hand.
"Let me see you to your door," he pleaded.
"If you will, but it is a climb for nothing."
"What a barrack you live in!" he said, as they went up the stone steps.
"It was built for working men originally, but perhaps there is none hereabouts. It is now chiefly occupied by working women. They are extremely pleasant and friendly. To be sure, they are West-End working women. Now, Sir Robin, I must bid you good-bye."
They were at the very top of the house. The staircase window was wide open, and the sweet smell of wet earth came in. She had put the latch-key in the door and opened it—she had turned on the electric light. Now, as she held out her hand to him in farewell, he caught sight of the pleasant little room beyond. He had the strongest wish to cross the threshold on which she was standing; but, of course, it was impossible.
"When my cousin comes back from abroad," he said, "I want you to know each other, Miss Gray. Perhaps you will ask us to tea here."