He greeted her softly, with regret. A quixotic impulse to turn and walk away before she spoke had died in him.
Fanny was staring expectantly. He was familiar with the expression. Not in her, but in others. This took away its charms. Married women were nearly all alike. Full of distressing short cuts, with an irritating and incongruous professionalism behind their bewilderment. What dolts husbands must be to blunt women like that.
As he took her hand and felt her fingers clutch excitedly around his palm he remembered in an instant the predecessors of her type. Full of distressing short cuts. When they gave their hands they withheld nothing. They denuded themselves with a look, with a handclasp. And the subtlety of skirmishing seemed entirely foreign to them. When they embraced it was with an appalling directness. Yes, in intrigue they were all alike—all like precocious children; vague, bewildered children mimicking the precisions of their elders and exclaiming with distressful incongruity:
"Tut, tut. Let's come to the point. Let's get down to brass tacks and stop beating around the bush."
Well, here she was and the scene was on.
"No, dearest. I was just a little early so as to enjoy the impatience of waiting for you."
The nuance was lost upon her. Amorous women were a cold audience for technique.
"I'm so upset. Do you mind?"
"Not at all, Fanny. Of course you're upset. But it only adds to your charm."