J. recognised Christine just beyond the knot of loiterers at the
Piccadilly Tube. The improbable had happened. She was walking at what
was for her a rather quick pace, purposeful and preoccupied. For an
instant the recognition was not mutual; he liked the uninviting stare
that she gave him as he stopped.
"It is thou?" she exclaimed, and her dimly-seen face softened suddenly
into a delighted, adoring smile.
He was moved by the passion which she still had for him. He felt
vaguely and yet acutely an undischarged obligation in regard to
her. It was the first time he had met her in such circumstances. A
constraint fell between them. In five minutes she would have been in
her Promenade engaged upon her highly technical business, displaying
her attractions while appearing to protect herself within a virginal
timidity (for this was her natural method). In any case, even had
he not set forth on purpose to find her, he could scarcely have
accompanied her to the doors of the theatre and there left her to the
night's routine. They both hesitated, and then, without a word, he
turned aside and she followed close, acquiescent by training and by
instinct. Knowing his sure instinct for what was proper, she knew at
once that hazard had saved her from the night's routine, and she was
full of quiet triumph.
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