'I wish you'd let me see you right home,' he said, detaining her hand in his.
'Oh, no, no—I shall catch it enough as it is. Oh, they'll let me in! Will it be next Sunday, Mr. Grieve?'
'No, the Sunday after. Can I do anything for you?'
He came closer to her, seeming to envelope her in his tall, protecting presence. It was impossible for him to ignore her girlish flutter, her evident joy in having seen and talked to him again, in spite of her dread of her father. Nor did he wish to ignore them. They were unexpectedly sweet to him, and he surprised himself.
'Oh no, nothing,—but it's very good of you to say so,' she said impulsively; 'very. Good night again.'
And instinctively she put out another small hand, which also he took, so holding her prisoner a moment.
'Look here,' he said, 'I'll just slip down that side of the Close and wait till I see you get safe in. Good night; I am glad I saw you!'
She ran away in a blind whirl of happiness up the steps into the passage of Half Street. He slipped down to the left and waited, looking through the railings across the corner of the Close, his eyes fixed on that upper window, where he had so often sat, parleying alternately with the cathedral and Voltaire.
Lucy rang, the door opened, there were loud sounds within, but she was admitted; it closed behind her.
David was soon in his back room, kindling a lamp and a bit of fire to read by. But when it was done he sat bent forward over the blaze, till the cathedral clock chimed the small hours, thinking.