''She knows you do not love me. You have no need to dote.''
''Shouldn''t a gentleman dote, in the springtime, when he has the chance?'' He puts back his head. ''Look at this sky, Maud. See how sickeningly blue it shows. So blue''—he has lifted his hand—''it jars with my gloves. That''s nature for you. No sense of fashion. London skies, at least, are better-mannered: they''re like tailors'' walls, an eternal drab.'' He smiles again, and draws me closer. ''But of course, you will know this, soon.''
I try to imagine myself in a tailor''s shop. I recall scenes from The Whipping Milliners. I turn and, like him, quickly glance at Sue. She is watching, with a frown of what I take to be satisfaction, the bulging of my skirt about his leg. Again I attempt to pull from him, and again he keeps me close. I say, ''Will you let me go?'' And, when he does nothing: ''I must suppose, then, since you know I don''t care to be smothered, that you take a delight in tormenting me.''
He catches my eye. ''I am like any man,'' he says, ''preoccupied with what I may not have. Hasten the day of our union. I think you''ll find my attention will cool pretty rapidly, after that.''
Then I say nothing. We walk on, and in time he lets me go, in order to cup his hands about a cigarette and light it. I look again at Sue. The ground has risen, the breeze is stronger, and two or three lengths of brown hair have come loose from beneath her bonnet and whip about her face. She carries our bags and baskets, and has no hand free to secure them. Behind her, her cloak billows like a sail.