When, after many congratulatory farewells and an exchange of confident good wishes for the future, Ordith had parted from Mr. Fane-Herbert, he saw Margaret in the garden. He paused with his hand on the outer door, which he forebore to close lest the sound of its catch should make her aware of his presence. Her right shoulder was turned to him, and she was looking seaward. He threw over the slim form, slightly inclined against the wind, a glance both critical and passionate; for it was a peculiarity of his mind that, unless he were in wine, its faculty of criticism was little affected by desire. Yet, even as he thought calmly of her beauty and the amazing excellence of her body’s pose against that pale, tawny sky, the idea of possession—or, rather, an impulse towards such an idea, for there was nothing deliberate, no defined imagining in this—came to him, and passed over him like a cool hand, infinitely light of touch, causing him to shiver imperceptibly and his eyes to narrow as if they were about to close. His throat opened slightly to receive a breath quick drawn through the mouth. He became conscious of the solidity of the brass knob against his palm, and, as his fingers moved a little, of the chill of the metal they had not previously touched. Then he closed the door, and went forward.
“You, Nick! How long have you been standing there?”
“Standing?”
“I—I had an idea that you had been.”
“No, this moment I shut the door. What made you think that?”
She moved her shoulders and smiled, dismissing the idea.
“You’re not staying to lunch?”
“No, I’m lunching at the Club. I’m coming again in the afternoon.”