I took her to the little boat-house, and there we hired a boat, and
I rowed in silence under the bridge and into the shade of a tree. The
square grey stone masses of the Foreign Office loomed through the twigs,
I remember, and a little space of grass separated us from the pathway
and the scrutiny of passers-by. And there we talked.
“I had to write to you,” I said.
“I had to come.”
“When are you to be married?”
“Thursday week.”
“Well?” I said. “But--can we?”
She leant forward and scrutinised my face with eyes wide open. “What do
you mean?” she said at last in a whisper.
“Can we stand it? After all?”