He kissed her as man might kiss an emblem, or the Holy Grail, with a sort of dispassionate passion that was all very well for a symbol or a graven image, but not good enough for Dorothy, who was flesh and blood.
“No, no!” she cried. “Reuben, what are you thinking me? I am not like that.”
“Like what?” he said. “I think you miracle.”
“Yes, but I’m not. I’m a woman—I’m not a golden sun on a far horizon. I’m nearer earth than that.”
“Never for me,” he protested.
“Yes, always, please. Oh, must you drag confession from me? I love you, Reuben, you, your straight clean strength. I went in shadows and in doubt, I waded in muddied waters until you came and rescued me. You touch me, and you kiss me now as if I were a goddess—”
“You are my goddess, Dorothy.”
“I want us to be honest in our love. You’ve shown me a great thing, Reuben. You have shown me that there is a man in the world. My man, and not my god, and, Reuben, don’t worship me either. Don’t let there be fine phrases and pretense between us two.”
“Pretense?”
“The pretense that I am more than a woman and you more than a man.”