She was not conscious of his footfall, nor of the opening of the doors that admitted him to a closer intimacy, but suddenly, he would stand before her, very near to the Inner Shrine of her Temple, catching her, as it were, unclad, or in the act of prayer, and she couldn’t put him out.
He was very quiet and respectful and walked as though aware that he was in a Holy place, but that didn’t alter the fact that he had passed through those obstructing doors without a sound of warning, and without her permission.
And he took such shocking liberties. For example, Marjorie couldn’t possibly have told how he had been allowed to contract the habit of kissing her. To be sure, it had begun in fun, one evening, when they were playing with the children. But she couldn’t explain why she found it impossible to deny him the privilege thereafter. It was very curious and disturbing.
Perhaps her difficulty lay in the artful naturalness with which he performed his acts of pretty gallantry, taking so much for granted and trading on her clean simplicity.
“I don’t want to behave so that he will think I have nasty notions,” she said to herself, and Sullivan knew it.
“You’re tired, dear,” he said to her, not wholly inattentive to the Vaudeville on the other side of the room. “Lean back against me. Raymond won’t be long, now!”
She felt his arm slip round her and moved away in sudden panic.
“Oh, Mr. Sullivan, not here, please!” she cried.
It wasn’t in the least what she should have said; but there was no opportunity for explanations or corrections then.
“You’re right, little woman,” he whispered, “this is not the place. I understand.”