The vision passed. The wind was colder to-night than that March
blizzard had been, and the dry groan of a passing electric car came
mingled with the whine of it. Muffled pedestrians, bent doggedly down
against it, jostled them as they went by.
He steadied her with a hand upon her shoulder, slipped round to the
windward side, and linked his arm within hers. But it was a moment
before they started on again. Their hands touched and, electrically,
clasped. Like his, hers were ungloved. She'd had them in her ulster
pockets.
"Do you remember the other bridge?" he asked.
Her answer was to press, suddenly--fiercely--the hand she held up
against her breast. Even through the thickness of the ulster, he could
feel her heart beat. They crossed the bridge, but the hand-clasp did not
slacken when they reached the other side. Their pace quickened, but
neither of them was conscious of it.
As for Rodney, he was not even conscious what street they were walking
on, nor how far they went. He had no destination consciously in mind or
any avowed plan or hope for what should happen when they reached it.
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