“Martha,” she cried severely, “do you see what the time is? Pack off to bed this minute, and I’ll come up and hear you say your prayers. Bid ‘Good-night’ to Mr. Swan, and thank him prettily for what he gave you.”
“Bring a bigger bunch next time,” said the child shrilly.
Swan, walking up and down on the pavement, was hailed by one or two colleagues on their way home, who asked to be informed whether he had succeeded in recovering young Mannering’s box: he contented himself by replying to the effect that negotiations were in progress, and that a full report would be made in the morning. They predicted that he had for once bitten off more than he could chew.
“This takes me back,” she remarked brightly, as she came up, “I shouldn’t like to say how long. Wonder whether I can get your step?”
“You’ll get accustomed to it,” he replied. “Any objection to me smoking?”
“I love a pipe! Oh, but,” with sudden agitation, “I didn’t say you could take my arm! Whatever will the neighbours think?”
“They’ll think what a lucky one I am.”
“Mr. Swan, you seem to have an answer ready for everything!”
She announced half an hour later that she did not feel in the least tired, adding a belief that she could go on walking for ever; but Swan, who needed his supper, was firm, and at her door mentioned that he was early duty all the current week. She offered her hand and thanked him for his kindness; he held it and asked determinedly where and when could he see her again. Surely, she retorted, surely once was enough! Once, Swan announced, was by no means enough—twenty thousand times would not, in his opinion, be reckoned sufficient.
“You must think I’m simple to believe that!” she said.