For the first time I stood in a room with Viola which we were going to share. No other form of possession, of intimacy, is quite the same as this, nor speaks to a lover in quite the same way.
I looked at her. She stood in the centre of the rather poorly furnished and bare-looking room, in her travelling dress of a soft grey cloth. Her figure that always woke all my senses to rapture, shewed well in the clear, simple lines of the dress. Over the perfect bosom passed little silver cords, drawing the coat to meet.
Beneath her grey straw summer hat, wide-brimmed, a pink rose nestled against the light masses of her hair. Her eyes looked out at me with a curious, tender smile.
She threw herself into a low cane chair by the window, I crossed the room suddenly and knelt beside it.
"Darling, you are pleased to be here with me, are you not?"
"Pleased! I am absolutely happy. I have the sensation that whatever happened I could not possibly be more happy than I am."
She put one arm round my neck and went on softly in a meditative voice:
"I can't think how some girls go on living year after year all through their youth never knowing this sort of pleasure and happiness, for which they are made, can you?"
"They don't dare to do the things, I suppose," I answered.
"Perhaps they wouldn't give them any pleasure, … but it seems extraordinary." Her voice died away. Her blue eyes fixed themselves on me in a soft, dreaming gaze.