"I'm horribly verminous," he said, apologetically. "I'm just back from the trenches—you ought to keep further off."
Margaret's eyes dropped; a flame of love's shyness spread over her glowing face. It heightened her beauty and bewildered Michael. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her—even before the whole carriage-full of people. Perhaps in the early days of the war the scene would only have brought tears and tender smiles to worldly eyes.
Margaret tried to say something, she scarcely knew what—just anything to break the passion of their silence, but the roaring of the train drowned her trembling question. How she hated the swaying and groaning and the rattling of the tube train as it dashed through its confined way! Never before had it seemed so awful, so maddening.
Michael, too, was tongue-tied. How could he offer Margaret any explanation, or ask if she had understood, while the train drowned the loudest voices? What a hideous place for a lovers' meeting, after months of weary longing!
When the train drew up at Knightsbridge Margaret rose from her seat. Her desire to see Kew had fled. It mattered little now where she went; she was only conscious of the fact that she must put an end to the present strain. If Michael was as anxious to speak to her as she was to speak to him, he would follow her. He was obviously home on leave. He was a free man.
As she rose from her seat, Michael hurriedly gathered his kit together and rose also, and pushed his way through the crowd of passengers who were disgorging from the train. Whatever happened, he must keep her in sight; her obviously unpremeditated leaving of the train left him in doubt as to her feelings towards him.
He was on leave, he was in "Blighty," and Margaret was only a few steps ahead. He would risk anything rather than let her disappear and be lost once more.
When Margaret reached the platform, she turned round. She wondered if Michael had left the train. He was standing by her side. She laughed delightedly, a girl's healthy laugh, and gave a breathless gasp.
"May I?" he said. "I have risked annoying you."
"Annoying me!" Margaret's eyes banished the idea; they carried him off his feet. He was a soldier, home from the war; she was a girl, fresh and sweet. She laid her hand on his arm. "I'm not angry, Michael—I never was angry. Besides, you're . . . you're . . ." she hesitated. "You're a Tommy," she said, "and I love every one of them."