Back again, and more prowling.

At last, weary and worn, to the counter and apron, and Allchin's talk about golden syrup.
The next day, just before sunset, he sauntered on the Embankment.

He lifted up his eyes, and there, walking towards him, came the slim figure in grey.
"Not like the other evening," said Rosamund, before he could speak, her eyes turning to the dull, featureless west.
He held her hand, until she gently drew it away, and then was frightened to find that he had held it so long.

From head to foot, he quivered, deliciously, painfully.

His tongue suffered a semi-paralysis, so that, trying to talk, he babbled--something about the sweetness of the air--a scent from the gardens across the river-- "I've had a letter from Bertha Cross," said his companion, as she walked slowly on.