It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. She could not say a word, much less move. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. . She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the casement.
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