She fell to wondering whether, when they were together in the dark, his unseen eyes had this look—and why it made his words and his caresses seem so different from the words and caresses of the darkness. She had never thought of it before; she hated to learn it then—just then; but she could not push away the monstrous truth that love and lust have the same vocabulary, the same gestures, the same tones, differ only in their eyes.
"What are you thinking about so solemnly?" he asked.
"I wasn't thinking solemnly," she protested with a hastily forced smile. "I was simply remembering how rarely we've been together alone—really alone—except in the dark, for a long long time."
"It's good to be able to see you," said he, and she felt like hiding in shame from his eyes. "You streamer of flame that's burning up my soul."
Her lips echoed his laugh. "What nonsense," she said.
"It's the truth," declared he. "But—burn on! I can't live without it."
The smile left her lips—it had not been in her eyes. "If I thought you——"
He stopped her mouth with a kiss. "Only love!" he commanded. "No thought."
"That's right," she cried eagerly. "No thought! Just feeling—just love. We must not think. It's the cause of our unhappiness."
And she tried to be as good as her word. "I do love him, and he loves me," she rebuked herself. "I'm unstrung—hysterical—full of crazy fancies. I mustn't—mustn't—fret at his way of loving. I must always think, 'What would become of me if I lost him?'" And she pretended to be in his mood; for the sake of a passion that had been, she simulated a passion that was not.