“It’s more than that,” said Alan; “it’s pre-American.”
Alix was thoughtful in her turn. Alan caught her by the arm and turned her toward the west. A yawl was just crossing the disk of the disappearing sun. Alix felt a thrill at his touch.
“It’s a sweet little picture, isn’t it?” she said. “But you mustn’t touch me, Alan. It can’t be good for us.”
“So you feel it, too,” said Alan, and took his hand from her arm.
During the voyage they were much together, not in dark corners, but waging their battle in the open—two swimmers that fought each other, forgetting to fight the tide that was bearing them out to sea. Alan was not a philanderer to snatch an unrequited kiss. To him a kiss was the seal on surrender. But to Alix the game was its own goal. As she had always played it, nobody had ever really won anything. However, it did not take her long to appreciate that in Alan she had an opponent who was constantly getting under her guard and making her feel things—things that were alarming in themselves, like the jump of one’s heart into the throat or the intoxication that goes with hot, racing blood.
Alan’s power over women was in voice and words. If he had been hideous, it would have been the same. With his tongue he carried Alix away, and gave her that sense of isolation which lulls a woman into laxity. One night as they sat side by side, a single great rug across their knees, Alan laid his hand under cover on hers. A quiver went through Alix’s body. Her closed hand stirred nervously, but she did not really draw it away.
“Alan,” she said, “I’ve told you not to. Please don’t! It’s common—this sort of thing.”
Alan tightened his grip.
“You say it’s common,” he said, “because you’ve never thought it out. Lightning was common till somebody thought it out. I sit beside you without touching you, and we are in two worlds. I grip your hand like this, and the abyss between us is closed. While I hold you, nothing can come between.”