He was up to leave, she stood close under him. She was warm. A certain discomfort kneaded her firm body, cloying it. She took his hand, looked down at it, she looked up to his face, not quite meeting his eyes. She squeezed his hand and pressed it against her waist. She said:
“You can’t really care for me, David?”
So David knew he did not really care. But she had one charm: the joy there was in bringing a timid flush upon so strong a body.
He came frequently. He delighted to kiss her. Caroline Lord loved to be kissed.
She had not planned this. She had in a deep way planned nothing in her life. But she had the gift, as each new fact dawned on the rim of her world, to be convinced that she had ordered it. Since David was there,—the nephew of Mr. Deane—and since her senses loved his kissing her, she planned a marriage.
The unfortunate circumstance was this: by the time she had hatched her plans and cleared the way in her mind, she had already tasted the delight of being kissed by David. And this was unfortunate because she felt as part of her campaign toward marriage the need of circumspection in such advances as kisses.
David noticed no change at first. Miss Lord feared to go too fast. She had a sickening sense that she might lose all in her effort to gain all. She found herself shamefully willing to temporize, and to enjoy the evils of the day.
But as he held her in his arms, her little shifts began.
She said to him: “David, you do care for me?”
“David, if I felt that you could misunderstand why I let you kiss me, oh, David,—it would kill me.”