"Why not?"

"It makes me fonder--I mean like you ever so much."

When they reached Sloane Street, he remarked:

"Do let me drive you. It's a shame to make you walk. You must be
quite tired out."

"I'll leave you and get a 'bus," she replied.

"And you won't give me your address?"

"No."

Although heavily laden 'buses were constantly passing, she made no
pretence of stopping one; not because she had no money: she had
forgotten for the time being that she was penniless. Her mind was a
welter of emotion. She regretted her sudden tenderness in the matter
of his unbuttoned overcoat; she reproached herself for not leaving
him directly she had got away from Mrs Hamilton's; she knew she
would never forgive him for having insulted her; the fact of his
having kissed her lips seemed in some mysterious way to bind them
together; she hated herself for having denied that she was Mavis
Keeves. The many leanings of her mind struggled for precedence; very
soon, concern for the lie that she had told the man, who it was now
evident wished her well, possessed her to the exclusion of all else.
She suffered tortures of self-reproach, which became all but
unendurable.