Not a word of this came out; it was entirely muffled in his coat. Aghast and horrified, Catherine continued to have the top of her head kissed, and her aghastness and horror became overwhelming when she realised that she—no, it wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be that she—that this—that she was somehow, besides being horrified, strangely shot through by a feeling that was not unpleasant? Impossible, impossible....
‘Let me go,’ she gasped into his coat. ‘Let me go——’
For answer he took her head in his hands and held it back and kissed her really, right on her mouth, as no one in her life before had ever kissed her.
Impossible, impossible....
She stood, her arms hanging by her side, her body quivering. She didn’t seem able to move. She seemed as if she were becoming every instant more drawn into this, more absorbed in what was happening—as profoundly absorbed as he was, as remote from realities. The room disappeared, the relics of George disappeared, the world disappeared, and all the reminders of the facts of her life. Youth had swept down out of the skies and caught her up in its arms into a strange, warm oblivion. He and she were not any longer Christopher and Catherine—Catherine tied up in a tangle of relationships, of obligations, of increasing memories, Christopher an impetuous young man who needed tremendously to be kept in his proper place: she was simply the Beloved, and he was Love.
‘I worship you,’ murmured Christopher.
Through her dream she heard him murmuring, and it woke her up to consciousness.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him.
He was gazing down at her—beautiful, all light. She stared at him an instant, still held in his arms, collecting her thoughts.
What had she done? What was she doing? What was this? Oh, but it was shameful, shameful....