Philip is passionate. He has forgotten all else. He is alone with his love.
“Mildred,” I hear him call. I turn, and I meet Mildred’s eyes at last. Philip’s hands clasp her wrists that are tender like the stems of a long flower. Her face is close to his, her body is close to his: but her eyes touch mine.
“Mildred, my love—Mildred!” murmurs Philip. Her wrists lie in his hands and her face is near his lips. But her eyes are steadfast on me.
“In the other room?” I ask, as if corroborating.
Her eyes do not move. I nod. And I say:
“I am going to the other room, to see.”
Philip’s hands do not stir in their tender clasp. But my mother, who was once more seated, jumps to her feet.
“No!”
“Why?” ... The others merely turn and look.
“What folly!”