"It's too bad to be angry with me. I--I want to go."
"And I've asked you----?
"Because you want me?"
"Of course. It will be the first chance we've had to really talk----"
"It can't matter--just for once," he pleaded with himself.
"It might matter a great deal."
She went on down the stairs, very slowly, lingeringly. He leant over
the creaking banisters, trying to see her.
"Francey--you duffer--you haven't even told me where to meet you."
"Paddington--the Booking Office--10.15."
He held his breath. Her voice had sounded like that of a spirit
laughing out of the black veil beneath. It did not come again. He
could not even hear her footsteps. She had vanished. But he waited,
trembling before the wonder of his own impulse.
Supposing he had yielded--had taken her hands and kissed them--kissed
that pale, beloved face, he who had never kissed anyone but Christine
since his mother died?
He had not done it. It had been too difficult to yield. But he stood
there, dreaming, with his hot eyes pressed into his hands, whilst out
of the magic quiet rose wave after wave of enchantment, engulfing him.
2
They agreed that Francey had not boasted about her hill. It stood up
boldly out of the rolling sea of field and common land and was
tree-crowned, with primroses shining amongst the young grass. From its
summit they could see toy villages and church, spires and motors and
char-a-bancs running like alarmed insects along the white, winding
lanes.
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