But then she had never expected to meet a man like this, so entirely the hero of her dreams. With her sad, worldly wisdom, she had expected so little of love or of men. She had expected to be satisfied with some one who would love her; she had never, in her pride, imagined a man whom she could love. This noble and poetic soul was a shock to her, an amazement. Her fancy dwelt upon his splendid figure, his bold face. She smiled again, and then grew suddenly uneasy.
"No!" she said. "I don’t like it. I wish I didn’t. Him being married, and all!"
For a moment she had an inchoate perception of life going by like that wind outside, only not passing her, but bearing her with it. She knew that this thing could not be stopped.
"Maybe I’d better go home," she thought. "I don’t want to get mixed up in anything queer. Maybe I’ll go."
But that wasn’t genuine; retreat wasn’t in her soul. Her vague uneasiness increased; she began thinking of Eddie and his books, and those magnificent women.
"But all of them," she thought, "just went for the man they wanted, I guess, and didn’t give a darn for anything else. Maybe that’s the best way."
She dallied with the idea of reckless, overwhelming passion, but she could not wholly accept it. There was something humiliating in caring so much for a man.
There was a quiet little knock at the door. Angelica’s hand flew to her heart; she didn’t stir. There was another knock, and still she didn’t answer. Then, fancying she heard a footstep departing, she was seized with an unreasonable panic, and flew across the dark room and stood close beside the door.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It’s I," said the voice she had longed for and dreaded.