They had been walking for some little distance now along deserted streets, the moon shining upon them, their steps softly echoing, and Emmy’s arm as warm as toast.  It was like a real lover’s walk, she could not help thinking, half in the shadow and wholly in the stillness of the quiet streets.  She felt very contented; and with her long account of Jenny already uttered, and her tough body already reanimated by the walk, Emmy was at leisure to let her mind wander among sweeter things.  There was love, for example, to think about; and when she glanced sideways Alf’s shoulder seemed such a little distance from her cheek.  And his hand was lightly clasping her wrist.  A strong hand, was Alf’s, with a broad thumb and big capable fingers.  She could see it in the moonlight, and she had suddenly an extraordinary longing to press her cheek against the back of Alf’s hand.  She did not want any silly nonsense, she told herself; and the tears came into her eyes, and her nose seemed pinched and tickling with the cold at the mere idea of any nonsense; but she could not help longing with the most intense longing to press her cheek against the back of Alf’s hand.  That was all.  She wanted nothing more.  But that desire thrilled her.  She felt that if it might be granted she would be content, altogether happy.  She wanted so little!

And as if Alf too had been thinking of somebody nearer to him than Jenny, he began: 

“I don’t know if you’ve ever thought at all about me, Em.  But your saying what you’ve done ... about yourself ... it’s made me think a bit.  I’m all on my own now—­have been for years; but the way I live isn’t good for anyone.  It’s a fact it’s not.  I mean to say, my rooms that I’ve got ... they’re not big enough to swing a cat in; and the way the old girl at my place serves up the meals is a fair knock-out, if you notice things like I do.  If I think of her, and then about the way you do things, it gives me the hump.  Everything you do’s so nice.  But with her—­the plates have still got bits of yesterday’s mustard on them, and all fluffy from the dishcloth....”

“Not washed prop’ly.”  Emmy interestedly remarked; “that’s what that is.”

“Exackly.  And the meat’s raw inside.  Cooks it too quickly.  And when I have a bloater for my breakfast—­I’m partial to a bloater—­it’s black outside, as if it was done in the cinders; and then inside—­well, I like them done all through, like any other man.  Then I can’t get her to get me gammon rashers.  She will get these little tiddy rashers, with little white bones in them.  Why, while you’re cutting them out the bacon gets cold.  You may think I’m fussy ... fiddly with my food.  I’m not, really; only I like it....”

“Of course you do,” Emmy said.  “She’s not interested, that’s what it is.  She thinks anything’s food; and some people don’t mind at all what they eat.  They don’t notice.”