Very readily Emmy obeyed his guidance.  Her heart was throbbing; but her brain was clear.  He wanted to be with her; and the knowledge of that made Emmy happier than she had been since early childhood.

“It’s been lovely,” she said, with real warmth of gratitude, looking away from him with shyness.

“Hm,” growled Alf, in a voice of some confusion.  “Er...you don’t go much to the theatre, do you?”

“Not much,” Emmy agreed.  “See, there’s Pa.  He always looks to me...”

“Yes.”  Alf could not add anything to that for a long time.  “Fine night,” he presently recorded.  “D’you like a walk?  I mean ...  I’m very fond of it, a night like this.  Mr. Blanchard’s all right, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes. She’s there.”  Emmy could not bring herself to name Jenny to him.  Yet her mind was busy thinking of the earlier jar, recomposing the details, recalling the words that had passed.  Memory brought tears into her eyes; but she would not allow Alf to see them, and soon she recovered her self-control.  It had to be spoken of:  the evening could not pass without reference to it; or it would spoil everything.  Alf would think of her—­he was bound to think of her—­as a crying, petulant, jealous woman, to whom he had been merely kind.  Patronising, even!  Perhaps, even, the remembrance of it would prevent him from coming again to the house.  Men like Alf were so funny in that respect.  It took so little to displease them, to drive them away altogether.  At last she ventured:  “It was nice of you to take me.”

Alf fidgeted, jerking his head, and looking recklessly about him.

“Not at all,” he grumbled.  “Not tired, are you?” Emmy reassured him.  “What I mean, I’m very glad....  Now, look here, Em.  May as well have it out....”  Emmy’s heart gave a bound:  she walked mechanically beside him, her head as stiffly held as though the muscles of her neck had been paralysed.  “May as well, er...have it out,” repeated Alf.  “That’s how I am—­I like to be all shipshape from the start.  When I came along this evening I did mean to ask young Jen to go with me.  That was quite as you thought.  I never thought you’d, you know, care to come with me.  I don’t know why; but there it is.  I never meant to put it like I did ... in that way... to have a fuss and upset anybody.  I’ve ...  I mean, she’s been out with me half-a-dozen times; and so I sort of naturally thought of her.”

“Of course,” agreed Emmy.  “Of course.”

“But I ’m glad you came,” Alf said.  Something in his honesty, and the brusqueness of his rejoicing, touched Emmy, and healed her first wound—­the thought that she might have been unwelcome to him.  They went on a little way, more at ease; both ready for the next step in intimacy which was bound to be taken by one of them.

“I thought she might have said something to you—­about me not wanting to come,” Emmy proceeded, tentatively.  “Made you think I never wanted to go out.”