"Gad, that puts fat on the bones, and gives the gay heart!" he said.
"Doesn't it, though?"
She laughed quietly. Her nature was warm, and she had the animal-like fondness for physical ease and content.
"It's as if there wasn't another stroke of work to do in the world," she answered, and sat contentedly back in her chair, the strawberries in her lap. Her fingers, stained with red, lay beside the bowl. All the strings of conscious duty were loose, and some of them were flying. The bumble-bee that flew in at the door and boomed about the room contributed to the day-dream.
She never quite knew how it happened that a moment later he was bending over the back of her chair, with her face upturned to his, and his lips— With that touch thrilling her, she sprang to her feet, and turned away from him towards the table. Her face was glowing like a peony, and a troubled light came into her eyes. He came over to her, after a moment, and spoke over her shoulders as he just touched her waist with his fingers.
"A la bonne heure—Sophie!"
"Oh, it isn't—it isn't right," she said, her body slightly inclining from him.
"One minute out of a whole life—What does it matter! Ce ne fait rien!
Good-bye-Sophie."
Now she inclined towards him. He was about to put his arms round her, when he heard the distant sound of a horse's hoofs. He let her go, and turned towards the front door. Through it he saw Christine driving up the road. She would pass the house.
"Good-bye-Sophie," he said again over her shoulder, softly; and, picking up his hat and stick, he left the house.
Her eyes followed him dreamily as he went up the road. She sat down in a chair, the trance of the passionate moment still on her, and began to brood. She vaguely heard the rattle of a buggy—Christine's—as it passed the house, and her thoughts drifted into a new-discovered hemisphere where life was all a somnolent sort of joy and bodily love.