She took away her hand at once, sat down. She left him to find a seat. She had said nothing. He could see her teeth and how she was faintly smiling, and that her teeth were cutting white against the cloud of her skin. Her shoulders were sharp and dear in the faint stuff of her gown. He could have said to himself: “She has on that gown. It is not she.” Her shoulders were articulate with little movements saying as much. Her arms came full from the folds of her drooping half-sleeves: her arms denied in their luxuriance the terse cut of her shoulders.
She left words to David. She did not help him find them. David took long selecting a place to sit. He took a chair and moved it and moved it again. He had to be in the right place for sitting: for talking, also.
She watched him, with an uncertain pleasure whose suggestion helped him since there was no hint he should hurry.
“It was very impetuous of me, I guess, to want to see you all of a sudden.”
“You see how much I mind.... Then before to-night you did not want to see me?”
“Did I say that?”
“I think so.”
“I did not, somehow, think of coming.”
“Is that the same thing?”
David paused. “I think not. I think if I had never wanted to come before I could not so suddenly have wanted to, now.”