Henry put his arms round her, and Jane wept as she had never wept in her life, her face tightly pressed against the rough tweed of his coat sleeve, her whole figure shaking with tumultuous sobs.
Presently, when she was mopping her eyes and feeling quite desperately ashamed, she exclaimed:
“I had just touched a slug, and you were worse. I didn’t think anything could be worse than a slug, but you were.”
Henry had kissed the back of her neck twice while she was crying. Now he managed to kiss a little bit of damp cheek.
“You’re not to,” said Jane, in a muffled whisper.
“Why not?” said Henry, with the utmost simplicity. “You don’t mind it, you know you don’t.” He did it again. “Jane, if you had minded, you wouldn’t have clung to me like that. Jane darling, you do like me a little bit, don’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t! And I didn’t cling, I didn’t.”
“You did. Take it from me, you did.”
Jane made a very slight effort to detach herself. It was unsuccessful because Henry was a good deal stronger than she was and he held her firmly.
“Henry, I really hate you,” she said. “Any one might cling, if they thought it was a slug or Mr. Ember and then found it wasn’t.” Then, after a pause, “Henry, when a person says they hate you, it’s usual to let go of them.”