viii

It was only for a minute, for Emmy, with instinctive secrecy, drew away into the shadow.  At first Alf did not understand, and thought himself repelled; but Emmy’s hands were invitingly raised.  The first delight was broken.  One more sensitive might have found it hard to recapture; but Alf stepped quickly to her side in the shadow, and they kissed again.  He was surprised at her passion.  He had not expected it, and the flattery was welcome.  He grinned a little in the safe darkness, consciously and even sheepishly, but with eagerness.  They were both clumsy and a little trembling, not very practised lovers, but curious and excited.  Emmy felt her hat knocked a little sideways upon her head.

It was Emmy who moved first, drawing herself away from him, she knew not why.

“Where you going?” asked Alf, detaining her.  “What is it?  Too rough, am I?” He could not see Emmy’s shaken head, and was for a moment puzzled at the ways of woman—­so far from his grasp.

“No,” Emmy said.  “It’s wonderful.”

Peering closely, Alf could see her eyes shining.

“D’you think you’re fond enough of me, Emmy?” She demurred.

“That’s a nice thing to say!  As if it was for me to tell you!” she whispered archly back.

“What ought I to say?  I’m not ... mean to say, I don’t know how to say things, Emmy.  You’ll have to put up with my rough ways.  Give us a kiss, old sport.”

“How many more!  You are a one!” Emmy was not pliant enough.  In her voice there was the faintest touch of—­something that was not self-consciousness, that was perhaps a sense of failure.  Perhaps she was back again suddenly into her maturity, finding it somehow ridiculous to be kissed and to kiss with such abandon.  Alf was not baffled, however.  As she withdrew he advanced, so that his knuckle rubbed against the brick wall to which Emmy had retreated.

“I say,” he cried sharply.  “Here’s the wall.”

“Hurt yourself?” Emmy quickly caught his hand and raised it, examining the knuckle.  The skin might have been roughened; but no blood was drawn.  Painfully, exultingly, her dream realised, she pressed her cheek against the back of his hand.

ix

“What’s that for?” demanded Alf.

“Nothing.  Never you mind.  I wanted to do it.”  Emmy’s cheeks were hot as she spoke; but Alf marvelled at the action, and at her confession of such an impulse.

“How long had you ... wanted to do it?”

“Mind your own business.  The idea!  Don’t you know better than that?” Emmy asked.  It made him chuckle delightedly to have such a retort from her.  And it stimulated his curiosity.

“I believe you’re a bit fond of me,” he said.  “I don’t see why.  There’s nothing about me to write home about, I shouldn’t think.  But there it is:  love’s a wonderful thing.”