"What is it?"
Her full voice broke out of the obscurity startlingly close, in his very ear.
"The door—the bolts—I can't budge them."
"Let me ..."
He pressed forward, brushing her shoulder. She did not draw away, but willingly yielded place to his hands at the fastenings; and what had proved impossible to her, to his strong fingers was a matter of comparative ease. Yet, not entirely consciously, he was not quick. As he tugged at the bolts he was poignantly sensitive to the subtle warmth of her at his side; he could hear her soft dry sobs of excitement and suspense, punctuating the quiet; and was frightened, absolutely, by an impulse, too strong for ridicule, to take her in his arms and comfort her with the assurance that, whatever her trouble, he would stand by her and protect her.... It were futile to try to laugh it off; he gave over the endeavor. Even at this critical moment he found himself repeating over and over to his heart the question: "Can this be love? Can this be love? ..."
Could it be love at an hour's acquaintance? Absurd! But he could not laugh—nor render himself insensible to the suggestion.
He found that he had drawn the bolts. The girl tugged and rattled at the knob. Reluctantly the door opened inwards. Beyond its threshold stretched ten feet or more of covered passageway, whose entrance framed an oblong glimmering with light. A draught of fresh air smote their faces. Behind them a door banged.
"Where does this open?"
"On the mews," she informed him.
"The mews!" He stared in consternation at the pallid oval that stood for her face. "The mews! But you, in your evening gown, and I—"