“Is it?” asked Emma, distantly.  Why couldn’t he say he loved her?  Too proud, was he?  Or was he shy?  He had only used the word “love” once, and that was in this general sense—­as though there was such a thing.  Emmy was shy of the word, too; but not as shy as that.  She was for a moment anxious, because she wanted him to say the word, or some equivalent.  If it was not said, she was dependent upon his charity later, and would cry sleeplessly at night for want of sureness of him.

“D’you love me?” she suddenly said.  Alf whistled.  He seemed for that instant to be quite taken aback by her inquiry.  “There’s no harm in me asking, I suppose.”  Into Emmy’s voice there came a thread of roughness.

“No harm at all,” Alf politely said.  “Not at all.”  He continued to hesitate.

“Well?” Emmy waited, still in his arms, her ears alert.

“We’re engaged, aren’t we?” Alf muttered shamefacedly.  “Erum ... what sort of ring would you like?  I don’t say you’ll get it ... and it’s too late to go and choose one to-night.”

Emmy flushed again:  he felt her tremble.

“You are in a hurry,” she said, too much moved for her archness to take effect.

“Yes, I am.”  Alf’s quick answer was reassuring enough.  Emmy’s heart was eased.  She drew him nearer with her arms about his neck, and they kissed again.

“I wish you’d say you love me,” she whispered.  “Mean such a lot to me.”

“No!” cried Alf incredulously.  “Really?”

“Do you?”

“I’ll think about it.  Do you—­me?”

“Yes.  I don’t mind saying it if you will.”

Alf gave a little whistle to himself, half under his breath.  He looked carefully to right and left, and up at the house-wall against which they were standing.  Nobody seemed to be in danger of making him feel an abject fool by overhearing such a confession as he was invited to make; and yet it was such a terrible matter.  He was confronted with a difficulty of difficulties.  He looked at Emmy, and knew that she was waiting, entreating him with her shining eyes.

“Er,” said Alf, reluctantly and with misgiving.  “Er ... well, I ... a ... suppose I do....”

Emmy gave a little cry, that was half a smothered laugh of happiness at her triumph.  It was not bad!  She had made him admit it on the first evening.  Later, when she was more at ease, he should be more explicit.

x

“Well,” said Alf, instantly regretting his admission, and inclined to bluster.  “Now I suppose you’re satisfied?”

“Awfully!” breathed Emmy.  “You’re a dear good soul.  You’re splendid, Alf!”