Sue lay there, her wealth of hair clouding Garrison's shoulder. He watched consciousness return, the flutter of her breath. The perfume of her skin was in his nostrils, his mouth; stealing away his honor. He held her close. She shivered.
He fought to keep from kissing her as she lay there unarmed. Then her throat pulsed; her eyes opened. Garrison kissed her again and again; gripping her as a drowning man grips at a passing straw.
With a great heave and a passionate cry she flung him from her. She rose unsteadily to her feet. He stood, shame engulfing him. Then she caught her breath hard.
“Oh!” she said softly, “it's—it's you!” She laughed tremulously. “I—I thought it was Mr. Waterbury.”
Relief, longing was in the voice. She made a pleading motion with her arms—a child longing for its mother's neck. He did not see, heed. He was nervously running his hand through his hair, face flaming. Silence.
“Mr. Waterbury was thrown. I took his mount,” he blurted out, at length. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head without replying; biting her lips. She was devouring him with her eyes; eyes dark with passion. The memory of that moment in his arms was seething within her. Why—why had she not known! They looked at each other; eye to eye; soul to soul. Neither spoke.
She shivered, though the night was warm.
“Why did you call me Miss Desha?” she asked, at length.
“Because,” he said feebly—his nature was true to his Southern name. He was fighting self like the girl—“I'm going away,” he added. It had to come with a rush or not at all. And it must come. He heaved his chest as a swimmer seeks to breast the waves. “I'm not worthy of you. I'm a—a beast,” he said. “I lied to you; lied when I said I was not Garrison. I am Billy Garrison. I did not know that I was. I know now. Know——”