His hands hovered as if they longed to turn over the leaves, but evidently he forbade them—and she guessed that he shrank from the chance of touching hers. She looked at his hands—they were well-shaped, except for the fingers which work had spoiled, they were brown, strong, lean—she liked them exceedingly. They were clean, but not as Peter’s or Jim’s or her father’s hands were clean; they suggested effort rather than custom—that he washed when he was dirty in order to be clean rather than when he was clean in order to prevent his ever being dirty.... What a queer way her thoughts were running, and all because of his hands—— Well, she would like to touch them ... it was funny how he held back even from such a natural contact as this—typical of his class, in which there was always consciousness between the sexes ... no careless, casual contacts, no hail-fellow and hearty comradeship, but always man and woman, some phase of courtship ... romance....
“I can’t find it.”
She thrust the book into his hands, and their fingers touched· He begged her pardon—then found the page. She did not notice what he said—her pulses were hammering. She was excited not so much by him as by herself. Why had her whole being lit up so suddenly?—What had set it alight? Was it just this simple deferential consciousness of sex between them, so much more natural than the comradeship which was the good form of her class? Sex-consciousness was after all more natural than sex-unconsciousness, the bridling of the flirt more natural than the indifference of the “woman who has no nonsense about her.” She felt a deep blush spreading over her face—she became entirely conscious before him, uneasy under his alert, dignified gaze.
He was picking up his hat—he was saying something about the two-forty-five being in long ago and his having no time to wait till the four-forty.
“I’ll call in tomorrow—I’ll leave word with Elias that I’ll call in at twelve tomorrow.”
“I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing,” she faltered.
“Oh, it’s no matter. I’m not busy today. Mr. Alard must have missed his train.”
She found herself going out of the room before him. His smart gig stood outside the door—the mare whinnied at the sight of him. Jenny thought how good it must be to drive horse-flesh instead of machinery.
“You haven’t taken to a motor-car yet, I see.”
“I don’t think I ever shall. It ud feel unfriendly.”