He had it on a plate on his knee, and a toy knife and fork. He set to work on it delicately. But there are peaches and peaches, and some can be very wayward about being undressed.
“This isn’t the sort of peach I’m used to,” said Ivor at last, in disgust.
“Are you making a mess of it, Ivor?” her whisper mocked him; for her head had stealthily left its corner, it was by his shoulder now, and her body encircled him, her body made a prison around him, and her breath and hair were warm on his cheek.
“Yes,” he said—and kissed her, lightly. Their first kiss, that light, flimsy thing! It was his tribute to her enchantment, it wasn’t fired of passion—it wasn’t the sort of kiss a woman of thirty had the right to expect from a very young man on such a divan. It was a pathetic kiss. A begging kiss it was really, that light thing born of a question about a peach, for Ivor was begging her to understand, to understand his hunger for the most absolute intimacy, the most perfect friendship, and not just the mortal thing. But there were depths in Magdalen stronger than her understanding....
Ivor made a movement to go. And he was going.
“Don’t go!” she said. And her arm swept to his shoulder—and suddenly fell back again to her side; and she looked up at the man standing feverishly above her, she looked at him as though she couldn’t see him for the darkness over her eyes. And suddenly, wantonly, she grimaced at him, oh so vengefully! Whereat they both fell to such a fit of giggling that Ivor was gone and Magdalen alone before either had realised the parting.
Perhaps those two had never been such great friends but for the curious issue of that remarkable dinner. Perhaps, if it had ended otherwise, Ivor would have walked away on air, as the saying is, or perhaps he would have crept away and never returned, for this was a queer moment in his life, and he might easily have done a caddish thing because of his foiled desire for a fine one. But if he had returned and enjoyed, this chronicle could not have been written—for never in the whole history of the world, neither in folk-tale or legend or romance, has there been a tale about a merely physical bond. To make a tale there must be a vow, of marriage, of celibacy, or of friendship; and to make a tale that vow must be upheld or broken. There are no other tales than those, there are only experiments.
CHAPTER V
1
It was difficult for Ivor, at three-and-twenty, to understand Magdalen; for she was so dangerously simple, so deplorably civilised, so utterly childish. He had realised her more easily and quickly had he never before met a woman—for naturally, being a young man of “experience,” he couldn’t help but apply a bit of it to her, and so went quickly all awry. He couldn’t help, any more than any one else, applying to her his almost unconscious knowledge of the petty dishonesties, antagonisms, hypocrisies, and caddishnesses that are peculiarly evident in women in love who are normally very gentle and honourable. But with Magdalen he had to begin right at the beginning; her quality, her artistry, her amazing talent for being articulate about those delicious shades of feelings that our more self-conscious lips do often fumble for but never attain—all this, in her, contained an amazing degree of earth, just common, pungent earth; which meant that everything she did, of honour or dishonour, was terrifyingly spontaneous, and, once done, inevitable.