now"—a pause—"months."
They were shattering through the dark. "Why?" called Henry.
"Oh..."
Then she shrugged, and smiled and shook her head, meaning she could not speak against the noise. He nodded and leant back. They came out of the tunnel into a sprinkle of lights and houses. He waited for her to explain. But she got up and buttoned her coat and put her hands to her hat, swaying a little. "I get out here," she said. That seemed quite impossible to Henry.
The train slowed down and the lights outside grew brighter. She moved towards his end of the carriage.
"Look here!" he stammered. "Shan't I see you again?" He got up, too, and leant against the rack with one hand. "I must see you again." The train was stopping.
She said breathlessly, "I come down from London every evening."
"You—you—you do—really?" His eagerness frightened her. He was quick to curb it. Shall we or shall we not shake hands? raced through his brain. One hand was on the door-handle, handle, the other held the little bag. The train stopped. Without another word or glance she was gone.
Then came Saturday—a half day at the office—and Sunday between. By Monday evening Henry was quite exhausted. He was at the station far too early, with a pack of silly thoughts at his heels as it were driving him up and down. "She didn't say she came by this train!" "And supposing I go up and she cuts me." "There may be somebody with her." "Why do you suppose she's ever thought of you again?" "What are you going to say if you do see her?" He even prayed, "Lord if it be Thy will, let us meet."
But nothing helped. White smoke floated against the roof of the station—dissolved and came again in swaying wreaths. Of a sudden, as he watched it, so delicate and so silent, moving with such mysterious grace above the crowd and the scuffle, he grew calm. He felt very tired—he only wanted to sit down and shut his eyes—she was not coming—a forlorn relief breathed in the words. And then he saw her quite near to him walking towards the train with the same little leather case in her hand. Henry waited. He knew, somehow, that she had seen him, but he did not move until she came close to him and said in her low, shy voice—"Did you get them again?"
"Oh, yes, thank you, I got them again," and with a funny half gesture he showed her the portfolio and the gloves. They walked side by side to the train and into an empty carriage. They sat down opposite to each other, smiling timidly but not speaking, while the train moved slowly, and slowly gathered speed and smoothness. Henry spoke first.
"It's so silly," he said, "not knowing your name." She put back a big piece of hair that had fallen on her shoulder, and he saw how her hand in the grey glove was shaking. Then he noticed that she was sitting very stiffly with her knees pressed together—and he was, too—both of them trying not to tremble so. She said "My name is Edna."
"And mine is Henry."
In the pause they took possession of each other's names and turned them over and put them away, a shade less frightened after that.
"I want to ask you something else now," said Henry. He looked at Edna, his head a little on one side. "How old are you?"
"Over sixteen," she said, "and you?"
"I'm nearly eighteen..."
"Isn't it hot?" she said suddenly, and pulled off her grey gloves and put her hands to her cheeks and kept them there. Their eyes were not frightened—they looked at each other with a sort of desperate calmness. If only their bodies would not tremble so stupidly! Still half hidden by her hair, Edna said:
"Have you ever been in love before?"
"No, never! Have you?"
"Oh, never in all my life." She shook her head. "I never even thought it possible."
His next words came in a rush. "Whatever have you been doing since last Friday evening? Whatever did you do all Saturday and all Sunday and to-day?"
But she did not answer—only shook her head and smiled and said, "No, you tell me."
"I?" cried Henry—and then he found he couldn't tell her either. He couldn't climb back to those mountains of days, and he had to shake his head, too.
"But it's been agony," he said, smiling brilliantly—"agony." At that she took away her hands and started laughing, and Henry joined her. They laughed until they were tired.
"It's so—so extraordinary," she said. "So suddenly, you know, and I feel as if I'd known you for years."
"So do I..." said Henry. "I believe it must be the Spring. I believe I've swallowed a butterfly—and it's fanning its wings just here." He put his hand on his heart.
"And the really extraordinary thing is," said Edna, "that I had made up my mind that I didn't care for—men at all. I mean all the girls at College—"
"Were you at College?"
She nodded. "A training college, learning to be a secretary." She sounded scornful.
"I'm in an office," said Henry. "An architect's office—such a funny little place up one hundred and thirty stairs. We ought to be building nests instead of houses, I always think.
"Do you like it?"
"No, of course I don't. I don't want to do anything, do you?"
"No, I hate it...And," she said, "my mother is a Hungarian—I believe that makes me hate it even more."
That seemed to Henry quite natural. "It would," he said.
"Mother and I are exactly alike. I haven't a thing in common with my father; he's just...a little man in the City—but mother has got wild blood in her and she's given it to me. She hates our life just as much as I do." She paused and frowned. "All the same, we don't get on a bit together—that's funny—isn't it? But I'm absolutely alone at home."
Henry was listening—in a way he was listening, but there was something else he wanted to ask her. He said, very shyly, "Would you—would you take off your hat?"
She looked startled. "Take off my hat?"
"Yes—it's your hair. I'd give anything to see your hair properly."
She protested. "It isn't really..."
"Oh, it is," cried Henry, and then, as she took off the hat and gave her head a little toss, "Oh, Edna! it's the loveliest thing in the world."
"Do you like it?" she said, smiling and very pleased. She pulled it round her shoulders like a cape of gold. "People generally laugh at it. It's such an absurd colour." But Henry would not believe that. She leaned her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands. "That's how I often sit when I'm angry and then I feel it burning me up...Silly?"
"No, no, not a bit," said Henry. "I knew you did. It's your sort of weapon against all the dull horrid things."
"However did you know that? Yes, that's just it. But however did you know?"
"Just knew," smiled Henry. "My God!" he cried, "what fools people are! All the little pollies that you know and that I know. Just look at you and me. Here we are—that's all there is to be said. I know about you and you know about me—we've
