To tell her would be to crush it, kill it utterly, the blow of the sword of Damocles falling at last--falling inevitably.

He knew how she would take it; just as she had taken his advances to her on the 'bus that night.

Did he think that of her?
Was that all the depth of their acquaintance! Oh, she loathed him! Therefore, why let it end that way?
Why not with this little mystery in her mind, which would not prevent their sometimes meeting again, even if she never came to his rooms?
He stood up from the table, crossed the room to where her hat was lying and picked it up.
"It's nearly eleven," he said quietly.

"You'd better think of getting home." She took the hat from him, then the pins.

He watched her silently as she secured it to her head, not even appealing to him if it were straight.