She had no subtlety, only the power of making what she said subtle; and she said:
"I don't know that loving is wise."
Osborn was in her hands; thrown upon her mercy; a beggar for just so much as she cared to give. He answered:
"Who cares about wisdom? It's the only thing worth doing, anyway."
Roselle began pulling her fur coat up over her arms; it was past ten o'clock; and on Sundays she went to bed early, to counteract as far as might be the results of all the late nights during the week.
"Take me home," she demanded.
In the taxicab Osborn took her into his arms and began whispering to her things to which she did not listen; had he only known it, she was extremely sleepy from the effects of all the fresh air during the day, but triumphantly he took her inertia for the surrender for which he had, so suddenly, craved.
He was begging for that promise about Paris, but she would not give it. A month? What an age it was—any good thing might happen.
She would not let him come into the flat. "I'm too sleepy," she declared. She stood before him on the inner side of her threshold, with a faint smile on her face that was as pale as magnolia flowers, and her eyelids drooping heavily; she put out a lazy hand against his chest and warded off his entry. When she sent him away, he felt on fire, from the last look of her, thus.