"It's so silly," he said, "not knowing your name." She put back a big piece of hair that had fallen on her shoulder, and he saw how her hand in the grey glove was shaking. Then he noticed that she was sitting very stiffly with her knees pressed together—and he was, too—both of them trying not to tremble so. She said "My name is Edna."
"And mine is Henry."
In the pause they took possession of each other's names and turned them over and put them away, a shade less frightened after that.
"I want to ask you something else now," said Henry. He looked at Edna, his head a little on one side. "How old are you?"
"Over sixteen," she said, "and you?"
"I'm nearly eighteen..."
"Isn't it hot?" she said suddenly, and pulled off her grey gloves and put her hands to her cheeks and kept them there. Their eyes were not frightened—they looked at each other with a sort of desperate calmness. If only their bodies would not tremble so stupidly! Still half hidden by her hair, Edna said:
"Have you ever been in love before?"
"No, never! Have you?"
"Oh, never in all my life." She shook her head. "I never even thought it possible."
His next words came in a rush. "Whatever have you been doing since last Friday evening? Whatever did you do all Saturday and all Sunday and to-day?"
But she did not answer—only shook her head and smiled and said, "No, you tell me."
"I?" cried Henry—and then he found he couldn't tell her either. He couldn't climb back to those mountains of days, and he had to shake his head, too.
"But it's been agony," he said, smiling brilliantly—"agony." At that she took away her hands and started laughing, and Henry joined her. They laughed until they were tired.
"It's so—so extraordinary," she said. "So suddenly, you know, and I feel as if I'd known you for years."
"So do I..." said Henry. "I believe it must be the Spring. I believe I've swallowed a butterfly—and it's fanning its wings just here." He put his hand on his heart.
"And the really extraordinary thing is," said Edna, "that I had made up my mind that I didn't care for—men at all. I mean all the girls at College—"
"Were you at College?"
She nodded. "A training college, learning to be a secretary." She sounded scornful.
"I'm in an office," said Henry. "An architect's office—such a funny little place up one hundred and thirty stairs. We ought to be building nests instead of houses, I always think.
"Do you like it?"
"No, of course I don't. I don't want to do anything, do you?"
"No, I hate it...And," she said, "my mother is a Hungarian—I believe that makes me hate it even more."
That seemed to Henry quite natural. "It would," he said.
"Mother and I are exactly alike. I haven't a thing in common with my father; he's just...a little man in the City—but mother has got wild blood in her and she's given it to me. She hates our life just as much as I do." She paused and frowned. "All the same, we don't get on a bit together—that's funny—isn't it? But I'm absolutely alone at home."
Henry was listening—in a way he was listening, but there was something else he wanted to ask her. He said, very shyly, "Would you—would you take off your hat?"
She looked startled. "Take off my hat?"
"Yes—it's your hair. I'd give anything to see your hair properly."
She protested. "It isn't really..."
"Oh, it is," cried Henry, and then, as she took off the hat and gave her head a little toss, "Oh, Edna! it's the loveliest thing in the world."
"Do you like it?" she said, smiling and very pleased. She pulled it round her shoulders like a cape of gold. "People generally laugh at it. It's such an absurd colour." But Henry would not believe that. She leaned her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands. "That's how I often sit when I'm angry and then I feel it burning me up...Silly?"
"No, no, not a bit," said Henry. "I knew you did. It's your sort of weapon against all the dull horrid things."
"However did you know that? Yes, that's just it. But however did you know?"
"Just knew," smiled Henry. "My God!" he cried, "what fools people are! All the little pollies that you know and that I know. Just look at you and me. Here we are—that's all there is to be said. I know about you and you know about me—we've just found each other—quite simply—just by being natural. That's all life is—something childish and very natural. Isn't it?"
"Yes—yes," she said eagerly. "That's what I've always thought."
"It's people that make things so—silly. As long as you can keep away from them you're safe and you're happy."
"Oh, I've thought that for a long time."
"Then you're just like me," said Henry. The wonder of that was so great that he almost wanted to cry. Instead he said very solemnly: "I believe we're the only two people alive who think as we do. In fact, I'm sure of it. Nobody understands me. I feel as though I were living in a world of strange beings—do you?"
"Always."
"We'll be in that loathsome tunnel again in a minute," said Henry. "Edna! can I—just touch your hair?"
She drew back quickly. "Oh, no, please don't," and as they were going into the dark she moved a little away from him.
"Edna! I've bought the tickets. The man at the concert hall didn't seem at all surprised that I had the money. Meet me outside the gallery doors at three, and wear that cream blouse and the corals—will you? I love you. I don't like sending these letters to the shop. I always feel those people with 'Letters received' in their window keep a kettle in their back parlour that would steam open an elephant's ear of an envelope. But it really doesn't matter, does it, darling? Can you get away on Sunday? Pretend you are going to spend the day with one of the girls from the office, and let's meet at some little place and walk or find a field where we can watch the daisies uncurling. I do love you, Edna. But Sundays without you are simply impossible. Don't get run over before Saturday, and don't eat anything out of a tin or drink anything from a public fountain. That's all, darling."
"My dearest, yes, I'll be there on Saturday—and I've arranged about Sunday, too. That is one great blessing. I'm quite free at home. I have just come in from the garden. It's such a lovely evening. Oh, Henry, I could sit and cry, I love you so to-night. Silly—isn't it? I either feel so happy I can hardly stop laughing or else so sad I can hardly stop crying and both for the same reason. But we are so young to have found each other, aren't we? I am sending you a violet. It is quite warm. I wish you were here now, just for a minute even. Good-night, darling. I am Edna."
"Safe," said Edna, "safe! And excellent places, aren't they, Henry?"
She stood up to take off her coat and Henry made a movement to help her. "No—no—it's off." She tucked it under the seat. She sat down beside him. "Oh, Henry, what have you got there? Flowers?"
"Only two tiny little roses." He laid them in her lap.
"Did you get my letter all right?" asked Edna, unpinning the paper.
"Yes," he said, "and the violet is growing beautifully. You should see my room. I planted a little piece of it in every corner and one on my pillow and one in the pocket of my pyjama jacket."
She shook her hair at him. "Henry, give me the programme."
"Here it is—you can read