“You are an awfully good sort,” he said to her once a propos of nothing at all.
“I expect I’m just the same as everyone else,” she answered.
He knew that he did not love her. It was a great affection that he felt for her, and he liked her company; it was curiously soothing; and he had a feeling for her which seemed to him ridiculous to entertain towards a shop-girl of nineteen: he respected her. And he admired her magnificent healthiness. She was a splendid animal, without defect; and physical perfection filled him always with admiring awe. She made him feel unworthy.
Then, one day, about three weeks after they had come back to London as they walked together, he noticed that she was unusually silent. The serenity of her expression was altered by a slight line between the eyebrows: it was the beginning of a frown.
“What’s the matter, Sally?” he asked.
She did not look at him, but straight in front of her, and her colour darkened.
“I don’t know.”
He understood at once what she meant. His heart gave a sudden, quick beat, and he felt the colour leave his cheeks.
“What d’you mean? Are you afraid that… ?”
He stopped. He could not go on. The possibility that anything of the sort could happen had never crossed his mind. Then he saw that her lips were trembling, and she was trying not to cry.