“If you feel that way, will you dine with me at my house?”
“You’re so kind, Mr. Annan. I’d love to! When may I——”
Their whispering was making somebody in front restless. Annan’s slight pressure on her arm silenced her. He seemed to recollect that Mr. Smull sat directly in front of Eris; and, again, very vaguely he was conscious of irritation.
There was no use in attempting to guess at the story which the machine above was steadily unreeling. It all seemed an inconsequential jumble of repetitions, full of aggravating close-ups—which better taste, some day, will eliminate from the screen.
When he thought Mr. Smull was again quiescent, Annan placed his lips close to the unseen ear of the girl beside him:
“Come Thursday at seven.... Shall I ask anybody else?”
She shook her head. Then, turning impulsively to whisper to him, in the darkness her lips brushed his.
Instantly she recoiled, almost upsetting her chair, and he caught it and steadied her.
His inclination to laugh subsided. He could not see her face, but, in the chilled silence, he was conscious of her dismay and of her rigid body beside him.
The shock of contact confused him, too. A delicate perfume of chaste youth seemed to cling to him, invade him, disturbing his natural ease and fluency. For the first time in his life, perhaps, he found nothing flippant to say.