Yes, decidedly, he felt himself to be
the shepherd now. He was the master, the protector. A wave of courage
swelled through him, warm as wine. He turned his head, and began to kiss
her face, at first rather randomly, then, with more precision, on the
mouth.

Anne averted her head; he kissed the ear, the smooth nape that this
movement presented him. "No," she protested; "no, Denis."

"Why not?"

"It spoils our friendship, and that was so jolly."

"Bosh!" said Denis.

She tried to explain. "Can't you see," she said, "it isn't...it isn't
our stunt at all." It was true. Somehow she had never thought of Denis
in the light of a man who might make love; she had never so much as
conceived the possibilities of an amorous relationship with him. He was
so absurdly young, so...so...she couldn't find the adjective, but she
knew what she meant.

"Why isn't it our stunt?" asked Denis. "And, by the way, that's a
horrible and inappropriate expression."

"Because it isn't."

"But if I say it is?"

"It makes no difference. I say it isn't."

"I shall make you say it is."

"All right, Denis. But you must do it another time. I must go in and get
my ankle into hot water. It's beginning to swell."

Reasons of health could not be gainsaid. Denis got up reluctantly, and
helped his companion to her feet. She took a cautious step. "Ooh!" She
halted and leaned heavily on his arm.

"I'll carry you," Denis offered. He had never tried to carry a woman,
but on the cinema it always looked an easy piece of heroism.

"You couldn't," said Anne.

"Of course I can." He felt larger and more protective than ever. "Put
your arms round my neck," he ordered. She did so and, stooping, he
picked her up under the knees and lifted her from the ground. Good
heavens, what a weight! He took five staggering steps up the slope, then
almost lost his equilibrium, and had to deposit his burden suddenly,
with something of a bump.

Anne was shaking with laughter. "I said You couldn't, my poor Denis."

"I can," said Denis, without conviction. "I'll try again."

"It's perfectly sweet of you to offer, but I'd rather walk, thanks." She
laid her hand on his shoulder and, thus supported, began to limp slowly
up the hill.

"My poor Denis!" she repeated, and laughed again. Humiliated, he was
silent. It seemed incredible that, only two minutes ago, he should
have been holding her in his embrace, kissing her. Incredible. She was
helpless then, a child. Now she