She became distressedly conscious that her feet, which lay on the wet grass, were aching with cold. She said softly, gently, as if he was her child whom she must correct and lead:
“I think we ought to go home, Siegmund.” He made a small sound, that might mean anything, but did not stir or release her. His mouth, however, remained motionless on her throat, and the caress went out of it.
“It is cold and wet, dear; we ought to go,” she coaxed determinedly.
“Soon,” he said thickly.
She sighed, waited a moment, then said very gently, as if she were loath to take him from his pleasure:
“Siegmund, I am cold.”
There was a reproach in this which angered him.
“Cold!” he exclaimed. “But you are warm with me——”
“But my feet are out on the grass, dear, and they are like wet pebbles.”
“Oh dear!” he said. “Why didn’t you give them me to warm?” He leaned forward, and put his hand on her shoes.
“They are very cold,” he said. “We must hurry and make them warm.”
When they rose, her feet were so numbed she could hardly stand. She clung to Siegmund, laughing.
“I wish you had told me before,” he said. “I ought to have known….”
Vexed with himself, he put his arm round her, and they set off home.
