“You’ve got nothing on,” he said. “You must wear my coat.” He began to take it off.
“No,” she said, “then you’ll be cold.”
“Oh no, I shan’t.”
What he was doing seemed to her a marvel of unselfish kindness; she was beside herself with gratitude.
“It’s awfully good of you, Edward,” she whispered, almost tearfully.
When he put it round her shoulders, the touch of his hands made her lose the little self-control she had left. A curious spasm passed through her, and she pressed herself closer to him; at the same time his hands sank down, dropping the cloak, and encircled her waist. Then she surrendered herself entirely to his embrace and lifted her face to his. He bent down and kissed her. The kiss was such utter madness that she almost groaned. She could not tell if it was pain or pleasure. She flung her arms round his neck and drew him to her.
“What a fool I am,” she said at last, with something between a sob and a laugh. She drew herself a little away, though not so violently as to make him withdraw the arm which so comfortably encircled her.
But why did he say nothing? Why did he not swear he loved her? Why did he not ask what she was so willing to grant? She rested her head on his shoulder.
“Do you like me at all, Bertha?” he asked. “I’ve been wanting to ask you almost ever since you came home.”
“Can’t you see?” She was reassured; she understood that it was only timidity that clogged his tongue. “You’re so absurdly bashful.”