“Don’t let’s tell anyone yet,” she murmured.

“No.”

“I mean for a long time,” she insisted.

“No, we won’t,” he agreed, and added scornfully:  “They’d only say we’re too young.”

The notion of secrecy was an enchanting notion.

She cut magic cake and poured out magic milk.  And they ate and drank together, for they were hungry.  And at this point the cat began to show an interest in their doings.

And after they were both in their beds, but not after they were asleep, Mr. Haim, by the clicking of a latchkey in a lock, reminded them of something which they had practically forgotten—­his disordered existence.

CHAPTER III

THE CHARWOMAN

I

George entered Alexandra Grove very early the next evening, having dined inadequately and swiftly so that he might reach the neighbourhood of Marguerite at the first moment justifiable.  He would have omitted dinner and trusted to Marguerite’s kitchen, only that, in view of the secrecy resolved upon, appearances had to be preserved.  The secrecy in itself was delicious, but even the short experiences of the morning had shown both of them how extremely difficult it would be for two people who were everything to each other to behave as though they were nothing to each other.  George hoped, however, that Mr. Haim would again be absent, and he was anticipating exquisite hours.

At the precise instant when he put his latchkey in the door the door was pulled away from him by a hand within, and he saw a woman of about thirty-five, plump but not stout, in a blue sateen dress, bonneted but not gloved.  She had pleasant, commonplace features and brown hair.  Several seconds elapsed before George recognized in her Mrs. Lobley, the charwoman of No. 8, and when he did so he was a little surprised at her presentableness.  He had met her very seldom in the house.  He was always late for breakfast, and his breakfast was always waiting for him.  On Sundays he was generally out.  If he did catch sight of her, she was invariably in a rough apron and as a rule on her knees.  Their acquaintance had scarcely progressed far enough for him to call her ‘Mrs. Lob’ with any confidence.  He had never seen her at night, though upon occasion he had heard her below in the basement, and for him she was associated with mysterious nocturnal goings and comings by the basement door.  That she should be using the front door was as startling as that she should be so nobly attired in blue sateen.

“Good evening—­Mr. Cannon,” she said, in her timid voice, too thin for her body.  He noticed that she was perturbed.  Hitherto she had always addressed him as ‘sir.’

“Excuse me,” she said, and with an apologetic air she slipped past him and departed out of the house.