In the heart of Sally, whether
it were a pitfall or not, love was an end in itself. She directed
all her steps towards that destination, and any light of romance
allured her.
That evening, walking up towards Kew Bridge, the lights of the barges
lying in the stream, looking themselves like huddled reptiles
seeking the warmth of each other's bodies, the lights of the little
buildings on the eyot, and the lamps of the bridge itself, all dancing
quaint measures in the black water, brought to the susceptibility
of Sally's mind a sense of romance. For the moment, until he spoke,
she forgot the actual presence of Mr. Arthur. The vague knowledge
that some one was with her, stood for the indefinite, the unknown
quantity whose existence was essential to the completion of the
whole.
As they passed by the City Barge--that little old-fashioned inn which
faces the water on the river path--she looked in through the windows.
There were bargemen, working men who lived near by, and others whose
faces she had often seen as she had walked to her tram in the morning,
all talking, laughing good-naturedly, some with the pewter pots
pressed to their lips, head throwing slightly back, others enforcing
a point with an empty mug on the bar counter.
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