Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. It was less will than education. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends. Manning, I do not think I love you. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story.
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