Stacey caught the soft sound and saw her at once. But, as he gazed at her, he continued to smile the same smile.
Nevertheless, what he felt was mixed. He was straightforwardly contemptuous of her melodramatic behavior, unexpectedly struck by her fine beauty, and stirred uneasily by memories.
Well, that half pleasurable discomfort is all that most long-parted lovers truly feel on meeting again, no matter how earnestly in letters they may have lashed their old emotion to keep it awake. But, since, even though changed, they are still they, the discomfort readily grows again to love in the renewed proximity.
Not with Stacey. He was no longer Stacey Carroll, 1914. He was a different person. His discomfort faded, flickered and went out—all in the brief moment of silence.
“You certainly are beautiful, Marian,” he said appreciatively, but without moving.
“Well,” she returned, with a ripple of laughter, “I’m glad you still think so—and feel so sure of it.” She moved slowly forward a few steps, toward him.
His mind was quite clear now and working swiftly. He thought rapidly that five years ago this demeanor of Marian’s would have set his heart to throbbing with delight. He would have likened Marian to a shy, half tamed bird, fond yet afraid of being caught. What an idiot he had been! To-day he coldly found her behavior absurdly affected. All these little airs and graces! Fiddlesticks! But, far more strongly than admiration of Marian’s beauty and cool scorn of her coquetry, Stacey was feeling elation, because it was now obvious to him that she did not love him, probably had never loved him. Frank love would not accord with these mincing ways.
Yet with all this only a few seconds of silence elapsed.
Stacey crossed the room to a divan and threw himself down easily into one corner of it. “Come on over here, Marian,” he said comfortably.
She stood still and looked at him, half archly, half in a puzzled way. “Stacey, you are—you are the most ardent lover!” she exclaimed.