“. . . Then you can come part of the way in my taxi.”
“I shall be so thankful not to have to face another drive alone after my dreadful experience.”
“You can get a taxi at the rank just at the end of the street. You won’t have to walk more than a few yards.”
“That’s a comfort. I’ll go and put on my coat.”
Miss Fulton moved towards the hall and Bertha was following when Harry almost pushed past.
“Let me help you.”
Bertha knew that he was repenting his rudeness—she let him go. What a boy he was in some ways—so impulsive—so—simple.
And Eddie and she were left by the fire.
“I wonder if you have seen Bilks’ new poem called Table d’Hôte,” said Eddie softly. “It’s so wonderful. In the last Anthology. Have you got a copy? I’d so like to show it to you. It begins with an incredibly beautiful line: ‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?’”
“Yes,” said Bertha. And she moved noiselessly to a table opposite the drawing-room door and Eddie glided noiselessly after her. She picked up the little book and gave it to him; they had not made a sound.