She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue. It was after all a momentary affair. He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. “No thanks. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. " He bent his head to his knees. "I should call it putting him out of the way. Besides," she added, blushing yet more deeply, "it isn't a proper one to talk upon.
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