—I've seen some life, perhaps—in Paris mostly. But not much. Why do you ask?"
"I wasn't thinking."
"But what do you mean? What are you thinking?"
"Nothing. Nothing."
"Don't be so irritating," said she.
But he did not answer, and she became silent also. They sat hand in hand.
"Won't you kiss me?" came her voice out of the darkness.
He waited some moments, then his voice sounded gently, half mocking, half reproachful.
"Nay!" he said.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to."
"Why not?" she asked.
He laughed, but did not reply.
She sat perfectly still for some time. She had ceased to cry. In the darkness her face was set and sullen. Sometimes a spray of rain blew across it. She drew her hand from his, and rose to her feet.
"I'll go in now," she said.
"You're not offended, are you?" he asked.
"No. Why?"
They stepped down in the darkness from their perch.
"I wondered."
She strode off for some little way. Then she turned and said:
"Yes, I think it is rather insulting."
"Nay," he said. "Not it! Not it!"
And he followed her to the gate.
She opened with her key, and they crossed the road to her door.
"Good-night," she said, turning and giving him her hand.
"You'll come and have dinner with me—or lunch—will you? When shall we make it?" he asked.
"Well, I can't say for certain. I'm very busy just now. I'll let you know."
