Both youths watched her. Long, dark hair, willowy body, high, pale forehead, thin nose, red mouth, smiling like a lewd agnostic and dancing close to her partner, enjoying even that. "Well, look out, Hugo. If she wants to play, don't let her play with your heart. Anything else is quite in the books."
"Oh."
She came to the stag line, ignoring a sequence of invitations, and asked him to dance. They went out on the velvet campus. "I could love you—for a little while," she said. "It's too bad you have to play football to-morrow."
"Is that an excuse?"
She smiled remotely. "You're being disloyal." Her fan moved delicately. "But I shan't chide you. In fact, I'll stay over for the game—and I'll enjoy the anticipation—more, perhaps. But you'll have to win it—to win me. I'm not a soothing type."
"It will be easy—to win," Hugo said and she peered through the darkness with admiration, because he had made his ellipsis of the object very plain.
"It is always easy for you to win, isn't it?" she countered with an easy mockery, and Hugo shivered.
The game was won. Hugo had made his touchdown. He unfolded a note she had written on the back of a score card. "At my hotel at ten, then."
"Then." Someone lifted his eyes to praise him. His senses swam in careful anticipation. They were cheering outside the dressing-room. A different sound from the cheers at the fight-arena. Young, hilarious, happy.
At ten he bent over the desk and was told to go to her room. The clerk shrugged. She opened the door. One light was burning. There was perfume in the air. She wore only a translucent kimono of pale-coloured silk. She taught him a great many things that night. And Iris learned something, too, so that she never came back to Hugo, and kept the longing for him as a sort of memory which she made hallowed in a shorn soul. It was, for her, a single asceticism in a rather selfish life.