Silence fell. His constraint was excruciating. She too was nervous,
tapping the table and creaking her chair. He could not speak.
"Shall you be going back to Bursley soon?" she demanded. In her voice
was desperation.
"Oh yes!" he said, thankfully eager to follow up any subject. "On
Monday, I expect."
"I wonder if you'd mind giving Janet a little parcel from me--some
things of George's? I meant to send it by post, but if you--"
"Of course! With pleasure!" He seemed to implore her.
"It's quite small," she said, rising and going to the sideboard, on
which lay a little brown-paper parcel.
His eye followed her. She picked up the parcel, glanced at it, and
offered it to him.
"I'll take it across on Monday night," he said fervently.
"Thanks."
She remained standing; he got up.
"No message or anything?" he suggested.
"Oh!" she said coldly, "I write, you know."
"Well--" He made the gesture of departing. There was no alternative.
"We're having very rough weather, aren't we?" she said, with careless
conventionality, as she took the lamp.
In the hall, when she held out her hand, he wanted tremendously to
squeeze it, to give her through his hand the message of sympathy which
his tongue, intimidated by her manner, dared not give. But his hand
also refused to obey him. The clasp was strictly ceremonious. As she
was drawing the heavy latch of the door he forced himself to say, "I'm
in Brighton sometimes, off and on. Now I know where you are, I must
look you up."
She made no answer. She merely said good night as he passed out into
the street and the wind. The door banged.
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