“Floyd, bring Martin up to see the baby.”
He stood in the doorway like a bashful boy, Floyd put the child in his arms; he looked down at the little dark head against his arm, bent and kissed it, giving Julie a look of lightning rapidity. It scorched her.
Martin became a frequent visitor at the Garrisons’, running in often at inopportune moments.
Julie was sitting over the fire in the dining-room, the child asleep in a little pink-lined basket beside her. She leaned back; there was a feeling of lassitude, weariness; she had every reason to be happy; no woman could ask more; but why that longing to get away from her child, her husband, from herself? Why did she feel the walls of her life? She knew there was something wrong with her; she felt too intensely. Martin! Why had he come back? She was happy with Floyd; he was good, gentle; kind, so different; but Martin! Martin!
She heard his voice outside, she must get upstairs; she went swiftly to the door—too late—he was in the room taking her in with those terrible eyes.
“Why did you break in like this? It’s very inconsiderate. I am not fit to see strangers.”
She raised her arms above her head, twisting the thick ropes of falling hair, trying to fasten them. Her shawl fell away, disclosing the corsetless form, the open neck.
Waves of passion rushed through him.
“Don’t go! Give me one moment more, just one!” He caught at her shawl. A terrible shame burnt her. She staggered out, slamming the door after her. Martin pressed the shawl, warm from her body, to his face; the hot tears rolled down.