“Here’s your scarf,” he said, almost roughly, holding it out. Then he remembered it was not hers, and thrust it in his pocket. He made an uncertain step toward her.
“Oh, we can’t go on like this,” he said harshly. “This has got to....” He made a queer awkward gesture with his arms. She went to them.
“How funny you are,” observed Martin from the shadow. “First you want to push her away and then you hug her.”
Apparently George did not hear him.
“Why did you wake me?” he was asking her. “Why couldn’t I go on sleepwalking through life? If I had never known you, how much anguish I’d have missed. Oh, my poor dear.”
“You mustn’t talk to her like that,” said Martin. “This is Joyce, she thinks once is enough. She isn’t like Phyllis.”
“Go away, Martin,” called Bunny. “It’s no use now.”
George held her fiercely. His voice trembled on broken words of tenderness. His bewildered mind craved the ease of words, a little peace, a little resting time. Must this glory of desire be carried for ever secret in his heart?
“You’ll hurt her,” said Martin angrily.
This they had stumbled on, George’s heart cried to him. It was none of their seeking. She belongs to who can understand her, insisted the sweet sophistries of blood. Joyce leaned up to him, the dear backward curve of woman yearning to the face of her dream.