‘Not at all a poor little thing,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve been very happy this evening, and don’t want to end badly. So if you’ll just not talk--just walk along quietly----’ ‘I insist on your taking my arm, then,’ he said. ‘I will at the crossings,’ said Catherine, who had drawn her hand out as soon as he had drawn it in. In this way, first on their feet, and then at last, for walking in the silent streets was anyhow better than being in an omnibus and he went on and on till she was really tired, in an omnibus, and then again walking, they reached Hertford Street, and good-night had to be said in the presence of the night porter. What an anti-climax, thought Christopher, going home thwarted, and bitterly disappointed at having been done out of his taxi-drive at the end. ‘Next time I see him,’ thought Catherine, rubbing the hand he had lately shaken, ‘I’ll have to tell him about Virginia. It isn’t fair....’ Next time she saw him was the very next day,--a fine Saturday, on which for the second time running he didn’t go down to his expectant uncle in Surrey. Instead, having telegraphed to him, he arrived at Hertford Street in a carefully chosen open taxi directly after lunch, when she would be sure to be in if she were not lunching somewhere, and picked her up, carrying her off before she had time to think of objections, to Hampton Court to look at the crocuses and have tea at the Mitre. It was fun. The sun shone, the air was soft, spring was at every street corner piled up gorgeously in baskets, everybody seemed young and gay, everybody seemed to be going off in twos, laughing, careless, just enjoying themselves. Why shouldn’t she just enjoy herself too? For this once? The other women--she had almost said the other girls, but pulled herself up shocked--who passed on holiday bent, each with her man, lightly swept her face and Christopher’s with a sort of gay recognition of their brotherhood and sisterhood, all off together for an afternoon’s happiness, and when the taxi pulled up in a block of traffic in Kensington High Street, a flower-seller pushed some violets over the side and said, ‘Sweet violets, Miss?’ Oh, it was fun. And Christopher had brought a rug, and tucked her up with immense care, and looked so happy, so absurdly happy, that she couldn’t possibly spoil things for him.