Architects -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- England -- Fiction
He, from the height of two years of hansom-using, was touched,
delighted, even impressed. The staggering fact increased her virginal
charm and its protectiveness. He thought upon the simplicity of her
existence. Of course she had never been in a hansom! Hansoms were
obviously outside her scheme. He said nothing, but he sought for and
found her hand beneath the apron. She did not resist. He reflected "Can
she resist? She cannot." Her hand was in a living swoon. Her hand was
his; it was admittedly his. She could never deny it, now. He touched the
button of the glove, and undid it. Then, moving her passive hand, he
brought both his to it, and with infinitely delicate and considerate
gestures he slowly drew off the glove, and he held her hand ungloved.
She did not stir nor speak. Nothing so marvellous as her exquisite and
confiding stillness had ever happened.... The hansom turned into
Alexandra Grove, and when it stopped he pushed the glove into her hand,
which closed on it. As they descended the cabman, accustomed to peer
down on loves pure and impure, gave them a beneficent look.
"He's not come in," said Marguerite, glancing through the flap of the
front door. She was exceedingly self-conscious, but beneath her
self-consciousness could be noticed an indignant accusation against old
Haim. She had rung the bell and knocked.
"Are you sure? Can you see the hat-stand?"
"I can see it enough for that."
"Look here," George suggested, with false lightness, "I expect I could
get in through my window." His room was on the ground floor, and not
much agility was needed to clamber up to its ledge from the level of the
area. He might have searched his pockets again and discovered his
latchkey, but he would not. Sooner than admit a deception he would have
remained at the door with her all night.
"Think you could?"
"Yes. I could slide the window-catch."
He jumped down the steps and showed her how he could climb. In two
minutes he was opening the front door to her from the inside. She moved
towards him in the gloom.
"Oh! My portfolio!" She stopped, and bent down to the mat.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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