The idea of a cab all the way to Wentworth Street was out of the question—ruinous; but she felt so shaken that she dreaded the long, jolting omnibus ride. It would perhaps be quicker by train.
“But you will have to walk—to Charing Cross, is it?—and you don’t look fit to do that.” He paused a moment. “If you really won’t have a cab, may I walk with you a little way? I’m going towards Charing Cross, and you oughtn’t to be alone.”
Bridget glanced at him; he met her look gravely. There was nothing in his face but solicitude for her, and she felt too ill and tired to argue the question.
“Thank you,” she said, moving from the door; “but you mustn’t go out of your way for me.”
“Take my arm,” he said gently, looking down at her white face.
Bridget put up her hand, and laid it on his arm at once. It was shaking, he felt.
“This comes of a long day’s shopping, and no lunch!” said Carey, as they turned into Waterloo Place.
“How do you know?” She looked up at him a moment, and smiled. “Oh, it’s so stupid of me! I never felt like this before!” she cried.
“You won’t make me believe you never went without your lunch before. All women do when they are left to their own devices; they think it’s so economical.”
“There’s no denying that it is,” Bridget replied. The fresh air had revived her already, and the miserable feeling of faintness was passing off.