It was the first time he had
tasted sympathy.
And so spring grew to summer. And then one evening a great thing
happened. He could not make out at first what it was about her:
some little added fragrance that made itself oddly felt, while she
herself seemed to be conscious of increased dignity. It was not
until he took her hand to say good-bye that he discovered it. There
was something different about the feel of her, and, looking down at
the little hand that lay in his, he found the reason. She had on a
pair of new gloves. They were still of the same fawn colour, but so
smooth and soft and cool. They fitted closely without a wrinkle,
displaying the slightness and the gracefulness of the hands beneath.
The twilight had almost faded, and, save for the broad back of a
disappearing policeman, they had the Outer Circle to themselves;
and, the sudden impulse coming to him, he dropped on one knee, as
they do in plays and story books and sometimes elsewhere, and
pressed the little fawn gloves to his lips in a long, passionate
kiss. The sound of approaching footsteps made him rise hurriedly.
She did not move, but her whole body was trembling, and in her eyes
was a look that was almost of fear. The approaching footsteps came
nearer, but a bend of the road still screened them.
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