"Is that one of the new typewriters?" I asked at last for the sake of
speaking.

She looked up at me without a word, with her face flushed and her eyes
alight, and I bent down and kissed her lips. She leant back to put
an arm about me, drew my face to her and kissed me again and again. I
lifted her and held her in my arms. She gave a little smothered cry to
feel herself so held.

Never before had I known the quality of passionate kisses.

Somebody became audible in the shop outside.

We started back from one another with flushed faces and bright and
burning eyes.

"We can't talk here," I whispered with a confident intimacy. "Where do
you go at five?"

"Along the Embankment to Charing Cross," she answered as intimately.
"None of the others go that way..."

"About half-past five?"

"Yes, half-past five..."

The door from the shop opened, and she sat down very quickly.

"I'm glad," I said in a commonplace voice, "that these new typewriters