John twitched his thumbs inside the pockets of his great-coat. He was standing outside # 27 Hurston-street, in Durdon, and feeling quite out of place. He was in the middle of a street that was perhaps a fourth of the width of the street that ran by his own house, and was missing some cobblestones here and there. The building in front of him was constructed of dull bricks, each one identical to the next, and the only wood present was that of the shutters, doors, and eaves. Everything was excruciatingly plain, and he felt that it was an entirely unsuitable place for Nora to live. She deserved something much better; his only consolation on that account was that at least she did not live in one of the really bad districts, like Shropsea or Chapel Hill, or even worse, in Yardley Row. At least here she would be relatively safe. Except from her customers, maybe. He wasn’t here to judge her lodgings, though, he reminded himself. He was here for an entirely mundane reason.

He’d come to collect his pen-case from Nora. It had been a gift from Samantha, his second-eldest sister, and he had decided that it was time to have it back. Initially, when Nora had reminded him that she still had it, he had asked if he might send someone to get it, and she had said he could. Then, upon reflection, he had decided that he would go himself. But each time that he thought about it, he realised how completely impossible it would be to go at that moment, because of a myriad of reasons that all, if he were to be honest with himself (which he never was anymore), devolved into a single root cause; he did not feel he was good enough to go see her. This was an entirely unwarranted and unwelcome feeling. He was a baron, an extremely wealthy man of both good stature and good status. Why on earth would he feel that he wasn’t good enough to visit Nora? She was a whore.

Nevertheless, it was the case, and so he’d put off coming as long as he could. There was always an appointment, or this or that acquaintance had sucked up too much of his time and it was late in the day. He’d decided that he couldn’t put it off any longer two days ago, though, after he’d discovered that he had an inexplicable propensity to stop in the middle of writing and stare at his substitute pen, imagining that it was the one Samantha had given him and that Nora was holding it again, with his hand guiding hers across the paper. Obviously, this was a sign that he’d been more attached to Samantha’s gift than he had previously thought, and the way to dispel the inconvenient symptom was to have the pen back. This seemed a perfectly logical solution to him; however, it had taken some further time to get the ball rolling on it. The main cause of that was the need for secrecy.

His sisters had become quite irritating since he had gone to tea at the Kendalls’. They often looked at each other as though they shared some private joke, and it seemed that any time he mentioned something about Miss Nora, they inevitably ended up giggling. For instance, just yesterday, the cook had made Battenberg cake. John had remarked that he was quite fond of it, and Helen had said that she hadn’t remembered it being an especial favourite before; he had explained that it hadn’t been, but that it had been served at the Kendalls’ tea. It had been especially delicious. Nora had liked it very much also. You’d think that was a perfectly reasonable explanation, wouldn’t you, but both his sisters had started laughing, for no reason! It was an aggravating pattern.

So he was not going to tell them that he went to get his pen-case back. But the need to keep it secret meant it took time to arrange things. Well, that and it had taken him some time to work up the courage to go. He’d had the fleeting thought to send Haverhill to get it. That could have been done easily, except that he’d had second thoughts. He didn’t really want to send Haverhill. Then Haverhill would be the one to see Nora. She might get the wrong impression from that; she might think that John thought it was beneath him to go himself. It would be like sending a collector after a debt. It carried all the wrong tone to it; it would be like accusing her of having stolen it. Yes, indeed it would not be possible to send Haverhill to get the pen, he had decided; and then the only other option, of course, was for him to go. Nora had said that he might send someone for it; surely she would not mind him coming instead. But he had needed Haverhill’s help anyway, since his steward and friend knew Nora’s address where John himself did not.

Fortunately, Haverhill did not have the strange new propensity to laugh at John that his sisters had, and had just given him the address on Hurston-street. John had taken a day to find the nerve to go see her, and then had told himself that waiting to see her, for the purpose of getting his pen-case, was stupid. He’d almost made a good showing, the last time she had seen him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t apologised for the small incident that had occurred, or that she was holding anything against him. He knew that. And he was going to get his pen-case, that was all. So he’d up and walked out of his house, barely stopping to get his coat and hat on first. Then he’d made his way here to Durdon, and was now outside the building where she lived. And it was suddenly much harder to go in than he thought it would be. Did he really need his pen-case?

Of course he did, he told himself firmly. Otherwise he might be stuck remembering Nora’s hand in his forever. Which would be a bad thing, he reminded himself. It would be unproductive, to say the least. He went inside. There was a somewhat beaten staircase at the end of a corridor to the left; that was where he was supposed to go. He headed up, and then counted doors on the left. The third one was Miss Nora’s. He raised his hand to rap on the door, but it stopped before it struck the wood. He looked at his hand bemusedly, as though it were a separate creature somehow attached to his body. He meant to knock, didn’t he? Of course he did; he tried again, and again his hand failed to contact the wood, all of its own accord. He turned to go. He could get the pen-case some other time.

That thought, however, sparked the pride in him, and he turned back. He would not leave without his pen-case simply because he was too nervous to knock! Not that he was nervous to see her, far from it. He was simply… worried that he would be disturbing her. That was it. He probably would be disturbing her, come to think of it. He should go. He raised his hand again and rapped the door sharply three times; he had to do it or he would argue himself back home without seeing—without getting his pen-case.

Nora was sitting on the floor in her apartment, legs crossed, excitedly wiggling the toes on her bare feet. She had just gotten out of bed a few hours ago, seeing as she had been working the previous night and came home rather late. Most of her make-up was already on - except that she had not yet covered up the bruises - but her hair was still undone. She was wearing a grey day-dress and "drinking breakfast," as Byron used to say whenever he saw her with a bottle this early in the day, and she was exactly tipsy enough for everything to be just fine. She had just discovered that she knew the first letter of the first word on the paper in front of her. It was a D. A D as in Doyle. He had taught her to write his last name, and from that she could recognize the shape. D. She wondered what the rest said.

The papers in front of her – when compiled together – made a rather long letter. She’d had it ever since she was a little girl, but she did not know who it was from or what it said, or if it was even for her, because she was still not quite certain how it had come into her possession. Now she thought that maybe the first word of the letter was Dear. It was normal for letters to start like that, wasn’t it? She had heard letters read out loud before, and they almost always started by saying Dear someone. Thinking of this, she traced the D lovingly with her finger. But it did not say Dear Nora, because she would have recognized her own name; he had taught her that as well. He had placed their names together as if she had his last name. She smiled to herself at the pleasant memory.

She had always felt that this letter - these old pieces of paper from the pocket in her childhood petticoat - was important somehow. She knew that she needed to take good care of it. Maybe someday she would ask someone to read it to her. Most of all she wished she could have read it herself though. She did not trust just anyone with such a great task and such a valuable thing. Not even Ormsby had been trusted with this document, which was wrong of her, she knew, but it had felt too private. Who knew what information was in there that other people were not supposed to know? Maybe it was a letter from her father to her mother? Maybe from some other family member she had never known? Then again, maybe it was just a random letter written by, and for, people she had never met.

Suddenly there were three sharp knocks on the door. It sounded like it Byron’s knocking, but no one yelled her name, so it could not be Byron. Besides, it was in the middle of the day; he would be behind the counter serving food.
"Give me a second!" Nora called out. She folded the papers carefully and put them on the table, under Lord Wothersham’s pen-case. He had said he would send someone for it, but no one had come yet. She had considered finding out where he lived to go and deliver it – in her most proper dress, of course – but she had not dared to. He had not seemed too keen on seeing her again when he had suggested that someone came to pick it up, and who was she to go against his wishes? It would not be right for her to seek him out; it would be scandalous for him had his neighbours recognised her as a scarlet woman.

She opened the door, and, to her great surprise, there he was; tall, broad-shouldered, straight as a rod, and Nora thought she had never been happier to see anyone in her entire life. Was he actually there? It could not be. Carefully, hesitantly, she reached a hand out to touch him, as if to see if he was real.
"Oh, my lord!" She breathed, and before she could stop herself she had hugged his chest. "I prayed for you this morning!" she exclaimed, quickly letting go for fear of any vexation she might have caused. "And I prayed that – if it was His will – that I would see you again! And here you are!" It was true that she had been praying for him. He most certainly must be sent by God. To her! Her prayers had been answered..!

"Dear Lord, this is Nora," she had prayed. "I know I should not pray to you, because no priest has absolved me of my many sins, but I am beginning to think there are too many for that to be done. B-but I will not pray for me; I am praying for another. You know Lord Wothersham, I am sure he must be a faithful servant of yours. Please bless him and keep him and if he is troubled, please give him strength. That is all I will ask from you. Oh, and if it be your will, please will you let me see him once more? I'm sorry. I know I should not ask that. Please forgive me. But you don't have to. I'm sorry. Your will be done. I pray in the name of Jesus. A-Amen."

“Give me a second!”

Nora’s voice came from inside the room, and John smiled like an idiot. She was here! He folded his hands behind his back, prepared to wait long past the second that she asked for, and eagerly anticipated seeing her. He did not even think about the fact that she had asked him to wait in a fashion that no one not of his own class had ever done before; no, he was much too happy at the prospect of seeing her at all to consider that he was not used to waiting to see people. He would wait forever if he had to; a second was nothing. His toes curled inside his shoes, and he realised that he was behaving like an overeager child, and stopped himself. He uncurled his toes and wiped the smile off his face. He decided to think of something other than Nora.

Then the door opened, and she was standing there, and he could not even pretend to himself to think about something other than her. She was staring at him, surprised to see him, and he knew that it was the best idea in the world that he should come get his pen-case today. He tried to think of something to say to her, but failed. She was so beautiful… except for the bruise on her cheek. John’s mental teeth ground, seeing it again. It was also right and proper for him to engineer the downfall of Rueben Raymond, as he had been doing the past week. How dared the man hurt her? Nora stretched a hand out to him, seemingly transfixed, and gently touched his chest, whispering, “Oh, my lord!” A funny thump shot through his heart, originating from the place where she touched him. John unfolded his hands from behind his back and was about to take her hand and press it between his as he expressed his happiness to see her, but she threw her arms before he could do it.

Once again, John stiffened as she took the liberty. He could not quickly accustom himself to the idea that anyone unrelated to him should be willing to embrace him even though she had done this before, but he was most disturbed by the feeling that Nora invoked in him when she pressed herself to him this way—he felt it might not be an entirely honourable sort of feeling. When she hugged him, he did not feel the same thing that he felt when his sisters hugged him. There was an element of that, yes; he trusted her as he trusted them, but the majority of the feeling was different. He wanted to return the embrace, so that she would feel his arms surrounding her and know that she was safe. He wanted her to always turn to him to hug, because she knew that he could be trusted, too. He wanted to be supreme over everyone else in her opinion. And he liked the feel of her pressed to him, which was something he couldn’t say he’d ever bothered to notice when his sisters hugged him. He could not say whether the physical difference or the emotional difference disturbed him more.

But, again as had happened before, his stiffness melted away under the influence of her embrace. His hands came up from his sides to clasp her back, but just as they landed on either side of the back of her waist, she pulled back swiftly from embracing him, and he was left looking like a booby with his hands on her in an unseemly fashion. He dropped them back to his sides at once, taking them off her as if touching her had burnt him.
Nora fortunately did not make an issue of it, instead choosing to exclaim, “I prayed for you this morning!”
John had no idea what he ought to say. He did not believe in God, and thus had not prayed for Nora ever, let alone this very morning, yet when she said that she had prayed for him, it suddenly seemed very unkind that he could not say that he had done the same for her. Which was stupid, since there was no God, but at the same time he knew why it was. She did believe in God, and praying for him was arranging for his well-being with the highest power that she knew. He had made no such arrangements on her behalf. Guilt crawled over his heart and ate away at it, and he said nothing before she added, “And I prayed that – if it was His will – that I would see you again! And here you are!”

“Ah,” John said intelligently. A lump grew in his throat and made any further brilliance impossible. She had prayed that she might see him again. He had spent all that time worrying that she would never want to see him again and she had prayed that she might. What had he ever done to be worthy of such regard? She was such an exceptional woman, quite possibly the best he had ever met, and he had always treated her without anything—honour, caring, or manners—that would warrant high regard. In fact he had crossed the line into dishonour and disrespect more than once; he’d forced his embrace on her once and he’d tried to kiss her at the tea. He was not worthy of her regard. And still she had prayed to see him. The lump was nearly cutting off his breathing, and so he had to swallow it down. And say something, he needed to say something. So he did. “Well, it was my will that I see you again, at least, and so here I am.”

But of course, he had a very good reason for coming, he reminded himself. He ought to make it clear that he did, and wasn’t just coming by to see her for no reason. Yes. She had his pen-case. That was what he was here for, and so he told her. “I have come for my pen-case.”

"Oh, yes!" He was here for his pen-case. Of course she had known that as soon as she had seen him. Why did she not already have the pen-case in her hands? She hurried over to the table to get it for him. "Here..." she muttered, caressing the wooden surface tenderly for a moment before she handed it over. "Here you go."

She would miss it. She had liked having something of his. But she still had his glove, hidden somewhere beneath her pillows. Something in the back of her mind whispered that the right thing to do would be to give him that back as well, but Nora pretended not to hear. She wanted to hold on to it, and she did not care right now that she technically was not really entitled to wanting.

"Thank you." They both hesitated. He held the pen-case in one hand, tapping it against his other palm, and she considered for a moment if she could not invite him in. Would he accept, if she did? Would he be offended again?
"Ah. Well, yes, thank you again. I'll just be on my way then," he said. Nora found no words this time either, to stop him from going. "Thank you," he repeated a third time. "Aha."

He turned to leave and she reached out for him as if to touch his back, but he swirled aound and a flood of words escaped him, as if he was in a hurry to get them off his chest.
"Miss Nora, I often walk about the parks at this time. Would you..." His face was suddenly flushed. "...like to join me for a while?"

Would she! Did he really want her to come with him for a walk, considering their earlier meetings and how they had almost always ended in some embarrassing situation? If she was given another chance with him – if this was for real – she would behave exceptionably well. He would not have yet another reason to be vexed with her, no sir! Nora felt like jumping up and down. This was exactly what she had prayed for.

"I would-" Nora began, but she was cut off by another flood of words.
"I understand if you would be too busy. You probably are too busy. Yes, that's all right, I understand. I'm sorry to trouble you. Goodbye then!" He turned around again and began walking down the hallway, leaving Nora in the doorway with her "I would love to" still unsaid.
"My lord!" she called out, bravely attempting not to sound desperate. He stopped in his tracks, but did not look around.
"I could think of nothing I would like more," she said softly. "I am not busy. Not at all. E-except that you would not want me to wear my hair down like this – I – I would have t - to put it up first."

Nora went at once to get his pen-case from a table he could see against the wall, and John watched her as she did it, noticing when she caressed it as if it were something precious. She brought it to him and he took it, tapping it against his opposite palm. “Ah. Well, yes, thank you again. I’ll just be on my way then.” Did he have to? Was he really going to spend so short a time here, after all? “Thank you,” he delayed, but there was no help for it. “Aha.” He would have to go. He turned to do it, and there was only one thought on his mind: Ask her. She would say yes. She had prayed to see him again. She touched his pen-case with care when she did not have to; surely that was an indication of regard, too. She would say yes. He must ask her. He turned back. “Miss Nora, I often walk about the parks at this time. Would you...” He couldn’t ask her. Yes he could! He would! The stress of his internal argument brought colour to his face, but he forced out a hopeful, “...like to join me for a while?”

He looked down. There. He had said it. He had asked if she would like to be in his company for a while. He could not be blamed for not trying now. But now that he had asked, he was quite certain what her answer would be. It would be “no.” Entirely forgetting that she had just said that she had prayed that she would see him again, John allowed his insecurity to feed into his fear of rejection, the feedback loop quickly cycling into the infinite reaches of anxiety, and thus when she started to reply “I would—” he knew exactly what she was going to say. “I would like to oblige, my lord, but there really is no way.” And she would follow it by whatever excuse she thought best. Unable to face the thought of hearing what that excuse might be, he started making it for her. “I understand if you would be too busy. You probably are too busy. Yes, that’s all right, I understand. I’m sorry to trouble you. Goodbye then!”

He swiftly turned to leave, crushed by his defeat, and it was only because she sounded very much as if she wanted to say something to him when she called, “My lord!” that he stopped. He could not look at her, though. She would have a look of pity on her face. And if he turned she would be able to tell that he had wanted her to come with him with a desire that was far out of proportion to what it should have been, and that would be insupportable. “I could think of nothing I would like more. I am not busy. Not at all.”

John could hardly believe his ears. She wanted to come! She would like nothing more! She wasn’t busy at all! She remarked that she would have to put her hair up, and he said, “I—” He very nearly did not cut himself off in time. He had been going to say, “I think your hair is beautiful like this,” but had only just realised what an idiotic comment it would have been, especially when coupled with what she really meant. She phrased it as being out of respect for his preference, but she really meant that she would rather it was up herself. Of course she wouldn’t want to walk about during the day looking like a shameless woman if she didn’t have to. And besides, why would he even say something like that in the first place? She wouldn’t care if he did or not. You stupid, stupid fool, he viciously told himself, and changed his intended words to, “I can wait.”

And he could. He could wait for however long she needed; he was not in any hurry to go anywhere, at least not without Nora. She seemed somewhat at a loss, but motioned for him to come inside instead of waiting in the hall. He obliged, following her as she put her hands to her hair and began to arrange it. He was so occupied by this fascinating sight (she really did have such glorious hair; he would very much like to run his fingers through it and—pull it all out, it was absolutely unfair that she could make him think things like this just by existing, and he had not in fact actually thought that at all, he was quite certain) that he did not at first glance about the room, but once he did, he got a very nasty shock and the words he had been going to say died on his lips: “Miss Nora…”

He again stopped in his tracks; his speech halted as well. When he had knocked on her door and Nora had opened it, he had seen a table against the wall, and a window with a large window-seat opposite the door. The rest of the room had been obscured by the door-frame and Nora herself, and to be perfectly honest he had not been interested in looking at the room as much as he had been interested in looking at Nora. But the small glimpse that he had caught had led him to think that it was a sort of very cheaply fitted up parlour or drawing-room—he wasn’t exactly certain what it would be called, but at any rate he had thought it was a public room of some sort. It had not occurred to him that Nora would be living in a one-room apartment.

This had proven to be an egregious oversight, as he was now standing in what was very clearly a room that served as her bedroom. There was a bed in the corner. He could see it with a strange clarity; in fact it seemed to be obtruding into his awareness in a most disagreeable fashion, as if it were the single most important piece of furniture in the room. At once his thoughts leaped from the bed to the idea of Nora on the bed, and from there to Nora on the bed sans her clothes, and thence to Nora on the bed sans her clothes with him, and that was when his brain shut down, overloading with utter humiliation. Without conscious thought, ingrained courtesy and his deeply entrenched sense of shame filled in what his conscious mind would have done anyway if he had been capable of thinking a the moment: he immediately apologised.

“I-I am so very sorry, Miss Nora,” he squeaked, turning away from her at once. The words triggered the flow of reasons why, his thoughts ranging from general to personal: he was sorry because it was intensely discourteous to intrude into a woman’s bedroom (indeed, it was one of the worst things a man could do), he was sorry for a multitude of less societal and more personal reasons, right down to the very most personal that he would never, ever, admit to her—he was sorry that he had thought of her in such a disrespectful manner. He retreated to the door-frame before he turned to address a proper apology to her, but when he turned to do it he could not think of the proper words, so great was his fluster.

“I didn’t know—I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—I oughtn’t—I-I-I—” He cut himself off, composing himself by an extreme effort of will. This sort of apology would be incapable of expressing his deep regret for his error. He took a deep breath, and with supreme contrition offered, “Please forgive me. I was unaware that this was your bed-chamber. I would not purposefully intrude upon your privacy. I am truly sorry.”

“I— ...I can wait."

He wanted her to join him for a walk in the park. That meant... That meant that he wanted to take a walk in the park with her. He wanted her to be there... while he walked. He really did. Because he had asked, and he said now that he would wait. For her.

She did not have time for anything elaborate, so simply sticking a pin in a bun of hair would have to suffice. Starting to work, she turned to the mirror, but her hair did not get the attention she would normally give it. Nora was more focused on the man behind her; this strange, confusing man. How... unreal this was, everything about him was unreal. Bizarre, absurd, and yet so perfectly wonderful. Now he was stepping inside her apartment, carefully taking in the surroundings.

“Miss Nora…” he began calmly. She tried to meet his eyes in the mirror, but they were not looking for hers. Instead what she found was his face suddenly filled with a sort of panic, and she turned around curiously, her hands still on her head.
“I-I am so very sorry, Miss Nora,” he peeped. What was he apologising for now? What was wrong? He backed up the steps he had just taken until he reached the door-frame again, still not looking at her. He spluttered:
“I didn’t know—I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—I oughtn’t—I-I-I—” Nora stuck the pin in her hair and raised her eyebrows as she lowered her hands. What oughtn’t he to have done? What was he upset about?

“Please forgive me. I was unaware that this was your bed-chamber. I would not purposefully intrude upon your privacy. I am truly sorry.” Nora laughed.
"Intruding? But I invited you in! This is my home!" She reached for her bonnet and covered her head with it, and then found a shawl. She was not at all dressed fine enough to appear on his arm.
"I-I-I… It is not proper for me to be present in your bed-chamber, even if you invite me."
"Oh." Oh, she had not known that. But of course, this was how he was. She should have known. She should have learned more about her clients and how they would normally behave – if they did not come to her bed-chamber on purpose. Why did she not know these things? Why was she so stupid? "Then I am so sorry. I’m sorry." She felt horrible for not knowing and for causing him this extra discomfort. Why did she always manage to make him feel bad?!
"Why...? You do not need to be sorry. I am sorry; it was I who intruded." And why did he always take the blame on him? He could not be expected to know that she lived in a one room apartment. He had only done what she asked him to do and then found himself discomfited. It was her fault. Again. It was always her fault.

"Well, it was I who invited you in. I did not know you would find it improper. I apologise. And... If his lordship wishes that I change into something more suitable for his company, I will gladly do so."
"There's no need for that!" he said quickly, as if he feared she would start changing right there in front of him. She smiled. So did he, but a bit more timidly, and then said:
"The dress you have on is beautiful." There was nothing beautiful about the dress Nora was wearing. It was a regular and very simple grey day-dress with no embroideries or laces or anything. Nora was slightly confused by his taste, but adored him for saying what he did. It was one of her favorite dresses, just because of its simplicity. It was comfortable to wear.
"Thank you. I am happy as long as my lord is pleased." She smiled again at him, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. "So if he finds me agreeable enough, I am ready."

Nora seemed very surprised at John’s apology, and laughed. Was she laughing at him for making the mistake? “Intruding? But I invited you in! This is my home!”
He could see that. It was also where she kept her bed: he would not be caught dead in a woman’s bed-chamber. It was unthinkable, pure and simple. Even as he thought that, though, another reason not to be in there came to mind: Him plus a woman’s bed-chamber added up to only one thing in the eyes of the public, no matter the actual circumstances. He wasn’t going to open that jar of snakes again, though, since it had already come up too many times with Nora, and so he simply stammered, “I-I-I… It is not proper for me to be present in your bed-chamber, even if you invite me.”
“Oh.” Had she really not known? How could she not know that? Everyone knew that. That was the way the world worked… “Then I am so sorry. I’m sorry.”
Why on Earth would she be sorry? It was him who had walked into her bedroom. She must be used to inviting people in, given what she… given what… just given, and no fault could be attached to her for this error. “Why...? You do not need to be sorry. I am sorry; it was I who intruded.”
She did not seem to agree with him. He continually made this sort of gaff and she never seemed to see that it was all his fault; he was a very sub-standard sort of man, he was finding out, but she always made out as if she were the one to blame. “Well, it was I who invited you in. I did not know you would find it improper. I apologise. And if my lord wishes that I change into something more suitable for his company, I will gladly do so.”

He had been going to say something to try and convince her of her blamelessness in the situation, but with her last statement, he entered into a state of refreshed consternation. Since when she had said that she would put her hair up, she had started doing it right in front of him, and since he now knew she lived in a one-room apartment and there was no where else that she would go to change, she greatly alarmed John with her proposal. What if she started changing right in front of him, too? He hastily assured her, “There’s no need for that!”
Then he actually looked at the dress she was wearing and discovered that he had been correct in his opinion, even though it had not been considered before. She was stunningly beautiful. The dress was, he corrected his thoughts: It was something his sisters would have approved of. In fact, they wore very similar things themselves, only theirs were made from silk and the shawl which she had in hand would be made from cashmere or angora. That was why he thought it was beautiful, of course, because it matched their taste, if not their budget. Happily deluding himself like this, he smiled shyly—not shyly, he was never shy, it was more of a …smallish smile, that was all—at Nora and dared to say, “The dress you have on is beautiful.”
What a completely unnecessary thing to say. He really ought to watch what he said; this sort of useless blathering was just the kind of thing to land him in a pit of conversational quicksand. Why couldn’t he think of intelligent things to say around Nora? It was like he had been Napoleon all his life, dominating every interaction until he had his built his sphere of influence up to where some people trembled at his approach, and then he met Nora, and that was his Waterloo. He could never think around her. “Thank you. I am happy as long as my lord is pleased.”
Oh, well, then it was all right he had said it then, if it made her happy. Why would it matter to her happiness if he was pleased? She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and he found nothing to say, as he had just had the sad realisation that she was only trying to keep him happy by saying that. She didn’t really value his opinion of her dress so much as to be happy that he liked it. Securing the shawl, she looked up at him smiled. “So if he finds me agreeable enough, I am ready.”
John briefly speculated on what sort of person a man would have to be to say that he did not find Nora agreeable enough. Certainly he would be appallingly rude, but he would also have to be quite out of his mind. There was not anyone more agreeable than Nora. Even if someone were to doubt John’s personal evaluation in the matter, there was factual evidence: Nora very nearly always agreed with what other people said. But she required an answer, and he must think of something, and it must not be I cannot think of anyone I find more agreeable. He substituted, “I shouldn’t think that anyone would find any cause for complaint.”

That sounds very cold… Why could he not be one of those men who knew how to say the right thing, the thing that a woman would love to hear but would not be over-bearing or pathetic or any one of the hundreds of other flaws that the things he always said seemed to have? He tried to remediate some of the coldness with a smile, but he couldn’t say how much that helped matters. He offered her his arm, since it was polite for him to have it available for her if there was any sort of obstacle in their path, such as the stairs would be. He certainly did not do it because he liked to have her on his arm. It never crossed his mind that she went up and down the stairs daily without his arm, but who could have expected him to think of that when she slipped her hand on his arm and he instantly was thinking of ways to prolong his walk, so that it might stay there as long as possible?

The walked away together, heading in the general direction of Kirk Park.

(OOC: John and Nora will post elsewhere next. Link to be edited in.)