"Too polite!" he ground from between set jaws, "Not enough—sheer man..."
And then, with the force of a blow, the gust of passion vanished, as he realised that she was not struggling. She lay in his arms, her eyes closed, as if she had swooned, but with the faintest of smiles playing around her lips. He felt suddenly sheepish and awkward. He had seized her with the force of desperation, bent upon having his will with her, whether she would or no. He had half expected her to scream or scratch, to play the primal woman to his primal man. Yet here she was, lying quiet in his arms, as if—as if ... she liked it! It was incredible. It was like stooping to pick up a great weight, only to find it tissue paper. He was thrown back upon himself, all weak and trembling and amazed and delighted ... a complex of more emotions than he could possibly enumerate. But as he strove to articulate, to say something, however banal, he became aware that Judith's eyes had opened.
It was an absurd thought, he told himself, but she seemed to be listening—and not to him. Then he became conscious of a bell ringing somewhere in the house, and suddenly Judith sprang from him like an arrow from a bow.
He sat down helplessly. All his tired brain could formulate was a question without words. His arms seemed strangely weary ... as if he had been carrying a dead weight.
In a very few minutes Judith reappeared.
"I've found it," she said, with an air of imparting information for which he had long been waiting. "I'm going over at once."
"You've found it?" he echoed stupidly. "You're going over? What? Where? I don't understand."
"Brent Good's," she said quietly, already pulling on her gloves. "He's ill."
"Oh." The words were enough to galvanise Imrie into action. He jumped to his feet, his jaw set. "I shall go with you," he said. It was not uttered as a threat, nor yet as an offer. Judith divined it for what it was—a statement of fact. But she tried to protest.
"It's not at all necessary."