aned on the desk, and the walls
of the cubicle folded them in, even from the inanimate scrutiny of the
shop.

V

They were talking together, half-fearfully, and yet with the confidence
of deep mutual trust, in the quick-gathering darkness of the cubicle.
And while they were talking, Hilda, in her head, was writing a fervent
letter to him: "... You see it was so sudden. I had had no chance to
tell you. I did so want to tell you, but how could I? And I hadn't told
anybody! I'm sure you will agree with me that it is best to tell some
things as little as possible. And when you had kissed me, how could I
tell you then--at once? I could not. It would have spoilt everything.
Surely you understand. I know you do, because you understand everything.
If I was wrong, tell me where. You don't guess how humble I am! When I
think of you, I am the humblest girl you can imagine. Forgive me, if
there is anything to forgive. I don't need to tell you that I have
suffered."

And she kept writing the letter again and again, slightly altering the
phrases so as to improve them, so as to express herself better and more
honestly and more appealingly.

"I shall send you the address to-morrow," she was saying to him. "I
shall write you before I go to bed, whether it's to-night or to-morrow
morning." She put the fire of her love into the assurance. She smiled to
entrance him, and saw on his face that he was beside himself with joy in
her. She was a queen, surpassing in her prerogative a thousand elegant
Janets. She smiled; she proudly straightened her shoulders (she the
humblest!), and her boy was enslaved.

"I wonder what people will say," he murmured.

She said, with a pang of misgiving about his reception of her letter:

"Please tell no one!" She pleaded that for the present he should tell no
one. "Later on, it won't seem so sudden," she added plausibly. "People
are so silly."

The sound of another battle in Duck Square awoke them. The shop was very
chilly, and quite dark. Their faces were only pale ovals in the
blackness. She shivered.

"I must go! I have to pack."

He clasped her: and she was innocently content: she was a young girl
again.

"I'll walk up with you," he said protectively.

But she would not allow him to walk up with her, and he yielded. He
struck a match. They stumbled out, and, in the midnight of the passage,
he took leave of her.

Walking up Trafalgar Road, alone, she was so happy, so amazed, so
relieved,