He turned and walked to the open window and stood looking out over the city. Sunset blazed crimson at the western end of every cross-street. Far away on the Jersey shore electric lights began to sparkle.
He did not know she was behind him until one arm fell lightly on his shoulder.
It remained there after her imprisoned waist yielded a little to his arm.
"You are not unhappy, are you, Clive?"
"No."
"I didn't mean to take it lightly. I don't comprehend; that's all. It seems to me that I can't care for you more than I do already. Do you understand?"
"Yes, dear."
She raised one cool hand and drew his cheek gently against her own, and rested so a moment, looking out across the misty city.
He remembered that night of his departure when she had put both arms around his neck and kissed him. It had been like the serene touch of a crucifix to his lips. It was like that now,—the smooth, passionless touch of her cool, young face against his, and her slim hand framing his cheek.
"To think," she murmured to herself, "that you should ever care for me in that way, too.... It is wonderful, wonderful—and very sweet—if it does not make you unhappy. Does it?"