He calls himself a fool, but fool is a mild term to apply to a man who deliberately seeks temptation, knowing himself to be uncommonly weak in the flesh; nevertheless, he stays a little longer, and yet a little longer.
Marguerite Ange leans back in a pose that would drive a sculptor into a phrensy of delight. The fragrance of her golden hair goes out to him, and her charming red lips tempt dreadfully.
How he anathematises inwardly the convenances so dear to his mother-in-law’s heart!
The conventionalities (he does not dream of calling them by any more serious term) that bid him and her sit apart.
“It is growing very late, I am afraid,” he says, after a little.
“If it is, what matter?”
“I am afraid!”
“Afraid! Afraid of whom?”
“Afraid of myself,” he answers.
“Is that really true?”