“Why?” Carpenter repeated her question, “Why? Because we love each other or we don’t. And we can’t love at arms’ length, dear. We’ve got to be close, trustful, together. You do like me, don’t you, Margaret?”
“You know I do.”
“And you know I love you. Won’t you come a little way to meet me? I’m so sure you can trust me. I’m so sure we could be happy. Just let your mind rest. Let yourself go a little.”
Her mood was chilling his. He tried to gather up the shreds of the impetuosity that had first driven him to embrace her.
“Let’s not talk,” he said again, almost plaintively, “Can’t we just—rest in each other?”
“But why are you afraid of talk?” she protested.
He dropped his hands from her shoulders.
“Have I been afraid? Haven’t we talked on every conceivable subject? Haven’t we said enough to understand each other perfectly?”
“Then—”
“Margaret, dear, we’re at it again. This is what I protest—dragging argument into every natural emotion. I don’t want to be mind to your mind to-night. I don’t want to reason or even think—I just want to be man to your woman and caress you without thought.”