“I’m not laughing,” said Miss Wych.
They were sitting on two chairs in the Park. How they had come to be sitting on two chairs in the Park Miss Wych could not imagine. The sun was red in the face with trying to get to Australia through Kensington Gardens.
The young stranger said: “Now!”
His eyes were deep and dark and shy, and Miss Wych thought: “He is one of those unhappy young men. There are a lot of them about. He is probably used to burning people with those eyes of his. But he won’t burn me.”
The lean young man was saying: “Miss Wych, may I tell you something most important? I love you.”
“That is what you say,” said Miss Wych, and was surprised at herself, for she had intended to say something quite different.
“Love,” said Miss Wych severely, “is a shy word. It should not be thrown about just anyhow. That’s quite apart from it’s being cheek.”
The lean young man’s eyes burnt angrily, and he said: “I have been in hell for a week, and you talk to me of cheek!”
“Well, it is cheek,” said Miss Wych sulkily.
Now because the young stranger’s deep dark eyes were whirling with the trouble that was in him Miss Wych suddenly thought to close hers tight, for she did not want to let herself be sorry for him. She thought: “If this is what they call Romance—well, oh, dear, give me a nice bus ride in a hurricane! It would be much less uncomfortable.”