She looked at him keenly a moment.
“I am spared wasting my affection,” he added, “by her obvious contempt for me.”
“She doesn’t mean any of it. She only wants to rouse you.”
“Still, she succeeds in making me feel rather a worm.”
Lorraine made no comment, but she could not resist a little inward smile at the thought of any one making such a man feel a worm. She realised there might be no harm in the leavening influence.
The clock struck seven, and he gave a start, rising quickly to his feet beside her. Lorraine was a little under medium height if anything, and as they stood together he seemed to tower above her like some splendid prehistoric human, while she appeared as some exquisite miniature, or frail and perfect piece of Dresden china.
And again it seemed as if his physical beauty acted upon her with some irresistible magnetism, flowing round her and over her and through her, till she was enveloped and obsessed by him.
His age was nothing, years are mere detail; she felt only that he was a splendid creature, and everything in her gloried in it. She rested her hand lightly on his arm.
“How big you are. You almost overpower me.”
He smiled down at her, but it was just a quiet, friendly smile, and she could not tell if her touch stirred him.