Part 19 (1/2)

”Ah, Sir Robin,” she said, turning about to shake hands with him. ”Who would have thought of seeing you? I am just going home.”

”As I came past this way I looked up and saw your light through the fog.

I thought you would be going home, and that you would let me escort you to your own door. There is a bit of a fog really.”

”I am glad you did not come out of your way. Thank you. I shall be ready in a few minutes. You don't mind waiting?”

”Not at all. May I smoke?”

”Do. It will be pleasanter than the smell of the fog.”

”Ah! I hadn't noticed the smell. I have a delusion, or do I really smell--violets?”

”There are some violets by your elbow. I was wearing them, but they drooped, so I put them into water to revive them.”

She turned back again to her work, and the clicking of the machine began anew. He leant to inhale the smell of the violets. Then, with a glance at her bent head, he drew one from the bunch, and, taking a pocket-book out of his coat-pocket, he opened it, and laid the violet between two of its pages.

While he waited he looked about him. The ugliness of the room did not affect him. The flaring gas, the business-like furniture, the unhomely aspect of the place, did not depress him. On the contrary, in his eyes it was pleasant. He always came to it with a sensation of happiness, which was not lessened because he felt half-guilty about it. To him the room was the room which for certain hours of every day contained Mary Gray. What did it matter if the case was unlovely since it held her?

Presently the clicking of the machine ceased, and she looked up at him with a smile.

”You are very good to wait for me,” she said.

”Am I?” he answered, smiling back at her. ”There is not very much to do to-day. The House is not sitting, and my const.i.tuency has been less exacting than usual.”

She put the cover on her machine, locked up her desk, and then retired into a corner, where she changed her shoes, putting her slippers away tidily in a cupboard. She put on her hat, setting it straight before a little gla.s.s that hung in one corner. She got into her little blue jacket, with its neat collar and cuffs of astrachan. Then she came to him, drawing on her gloves.

”I am quite ready now,” she said.

They lowered the gas, and went down the stone steps side by side. At the foot of the stairs Mary stopped to call into the depths of the back premises that she was going home, and a woman's voice bade her good-night.

It was cold in the street, and there was a light brown fog through which the street lamps shone yellowly.

The omnibuses crept by quietly, in a long string, making a m.u.f.fled sound in the fog. As they went towards the nearest station a wind suddenly blew in their faces.

”It is the west wind,” she said. ”And it breathes of the spring.”

”There will be no fog to-night,” he answered. ”See, it is lifting. The west wind will blow it away.”

”It comes from fields and woods and mountains and the sea,” she said dreamily.

The fog was indeed disappearing. The gas-jets shone more clearly; the 'buses broke into a decorous trot. The long line of lights came out suddenly, crossing each other like a string of many-coloured gems.

Outside the Tube station they paused as though the same thought had struck both of them.

”It is like the was.h.i.+ng of the week before last,” Mary said, as the indescribable odour floated out to them.

”Why not take a 'bus?” said he. ”The air grows more delicious.”

”Why not, indeed?” she answered. ”Except that I shall be so late getting home. And it will keep you late for your dinner.”

”So it will,” he said. ”To say nothing of your dinner. I know you had only sandwiches and tea for lunch. You have told me that when you go home you make yourself a chafing-dish supper. You must need a meal at this moment. Supposing--Miss Gray, will you do me the honour of dining with me?”