CHAPTER VII
Harry Occleve, now. She knew him slightly. She despised him. Tame cat! She hated him. Beast! But he smelt nice. Yes, he did. Of peat and soap and tobacco and whisky and tweed—always so—of tweed, even when in evening dress. Odd!
She met him in her uncle’s house. Poor calf! How she despised him—sick fool! She had to pass him. Hateful! She trembled. Her knees shook. She hated him so. Then—that smell! Peat, soap, tobacco, whisky and—tweed. He in evening dress.
She caught her breath. He caught her in his arms. Her face upturned—the thing’s too poignant for the words one has! Really. But one does one’s best. Start over, then——
She was caught in his arms, terribly enfolding her—around and around and around he wrapped those long, long strong arms—Phew! One gets so excited writing it.
She was incredibly swooning through incredible spaces, in incredible seas, through incredible blackness, in incredible tweedy smells——
Then they went in to dinner.