“I was going to say that I wish, well—I wish I were going with somebody else than Buckley; he bothers me all the time.”
“I’d like a lot to take you. It’s not fit for you to go, though. The best people in Greenstream don’t. They get crazy with religion, and with rum; often as not there’s shooting.”
“Oh! I had no idea. I don’t know as I will go. I wish you would be there. If I go will you be there to look out for me?”
“I hadn’t thought of it. Still, if you’re there, and want me around, I guess that’s where I will be.”
“I feel better right away; I’ll see you then; it’s a sort of engagement between you and me. Buckley Simmons needn’t know. Perhaps we can slip away from him for a while.”
Voices rose from below them, and they drew back instinctively. Gordon found in this desire to avoid observation an additional bond with Meta Beggs; the aspect of secrecy gave a flavor to their communion. They remained silent, with their shoulders pressed together, until the voices, the footfalls, faded into the distance.
He rose to leave, and she held out her hand. At its touch he recalled how pointed the fingers were; it was incredibly cool and smooth, yet it seemed to instil a subtle fire in his palm. She stood framed in her doorway, bathed in the intimate, disturbing aroma of her person. Gordon recalled the cobwebby garment on the bed. He made an involuntary step toward her, and she drew back into the room ... the night was breathlessly still. If he took another step forward, he wondered, would she still retreat? Somewhere in the dark interior he would come close to her.
“Good night.” Her level, impersonal voice was like a breath of cold air upon his face.
“Good night,” he returned hastily. “I got turned right around.” His departure over the gallery was not unlike a flight.