"I'll confess the real reason. It makes such a nasty taste in my mouth."
He tossed his cigarette into the grass. His every gesture—and hers—betrayed what a strain they were undergoing, how deceptive was their appearance of sanity.
"Now, what did you do that for?" exclaimed she.
"I oughtn't to smoke when I'm going to kiss you."
She put her cigarette to his lips. "Please," she urged, "I like you to smoke. Don't you know a woman likes everything, even the unpleasant things, that make a man different from her? ... Smoke, and tell me what you've been doing. It's forty hours since we were together."
"I've been conscious of pretty nearly every one of them," said he. "I've done nothing but think of you."
"Sad thoughts?"
"Very. But I'll not do that again. What's the use, Courtney? We've got to have each other. What's the use of struggling against it?"
"I can't realize it—I can't," said she absently. "Last night—out at father's—I got up in the middle of the night and ran and looked at myself in the glass. And—" She paused.
"Yes?"