Robert Browning: "The Glove."
Though he seemed to be leading the way, Barbara urged Jack by suggestion up a side-staircase and through a billiard-room to a broad loggia overlooking Greenhill Gardens. There were two chairs and a table with cigarettes and champagne cup; the night air blew chillingly with a scent of spring leaves, and the music reached them as a reverberation mingling with the distant traffic of Piccadilly.
"I say, you won't catch cold, will you?" Jack asked.
Barbara smiled to herself. He would never have thought of the wind or of her, if his match had not been blown out.
"Oh, we shan't be here long enough for that."
Jack lighted the cigarettes and settled himself elaborately in his chair, with one leg thrown over the other.
"I wanted to talk to you. I think you know what it's about."
She had intended to be thrown off her balance with surprise, but the bluntness of his opening did not invite ingenuousness.
"I hope I'm not in disgrace," she answered meekly. "You—rather frighten me, when you're so mysterious. You're not going to say anything unpleasant?"
"I hope you won't find it unpleasant. Look here, the best thing will be for me to say what I've got to say, ... and then you.... I mean, if you interrupt, you'll throw me out of my stride. Barbara, I've told you what I'm earning; and one naturally hopes that it will increase almost automatically year by year. As you know, I'm not a Catholic——"