She had not meant to do it, but it was difficult to refuse him. She had let him think she would do it ultimately, for one thing. And, however clearly she might analyze him in his absences, his strange attraction reasserted itself when he was near. But her acceptance of him was almost stoical.
“But not soon, Louis,” she said, holding him off. “And—I ought to tell you—I don't think we will be happy together.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” she found it hard to put into words—“because love with you is a sort of selfish thing, I think.”
“I'll lie down now and let you tramp on me,” he said exultantly, and held out his arms. But even as she moved toward him she voiced her inner perplexity.
“I never seem to be able to see myself married to you.”
“Then the sooner the better, so you can.”
“You won't like being married, you know.”
“That's all you know about it, Lily. I'm mad about you. I'm mad for you.”
There was a new air of maturity about Lily those days, and sometimes a sort of aloofness that both maddened him and increased his desire to possess her. She went into his arms, but when he held her closest she sometimes seemed farthest away.