Gordon Makimmon followed her without reason, without plan, almost subconsciously. He walked close behind her to where she opened the door to her room: it was grey within, a dim curtain swelled faintly with an unfelt air.
“Black,” he repeated stupidly, “size eight and a half.”
She stepped into the room, and faced him; her lips were parted over a glimmer of teeth. He took her roughly in his arms, and she turned up her face.
“For the stockings,” she said, as he kissed her.
He kissed her again, and she murmured, faintly, “Two pairs.”
It enraged him that she was so collected; her body, pressed against him from knee to shoulder, was without a tremor, her breast was tranquil. She might have been, from her unstudied, total detachment, a fine, flexible statue in his straining embrace, under his eager lips. Suddenly, with no apparent effort, she released herself.
She removed the hat with the blue feather, calmly laid it on the indistinct bed, and moved to the mirror of a small bureau, where her hands glided over her smooth hair.
“Men are so—elementary,” she observed, “and all alike. I wish I could feel what you do,” she turned to Gordon, “just once.”
“What are you made of?” he demanded tensely; “stone?”
“I often wonder.”