She stopped, panting, with her hands on her bosom. His exultation grew, and fear with it. He was like a child trembling before a joy too great to be realised, frightened lest it should vanish. He said without looking at her:
“Why have you come here?”
“Where else should I go? Unless—” She halted on the word.
“Unless what?”
She broke into an impatient cry.
“Oh, can't you speak? Do you want me to say everything? There is no need for you to be silent any longer.” She faced him. “Who was the woman—the picture woman we spoke of this afternoon?”
“You,” he said. “You. Who else?” There was a quiver of silence. Then he caught her to him. He spoke foolish words. Their lips met, and passion held them.
“Had I anywhere else to go?” she whispered; and he said, “No.”
She released herself, somewhat pale and shaken. Jimmie, scarcely knowing what he did, took off her cloak and threw it on the long deal table. The sudden fresh chill on arms and neck made her realise that they were bare. It was his doing. She blushed. A delicious sense of shyness crept over her. It soon passed. But evanescent though it was, it remained long in her memory.
Jimmie took her in his arms again. He said: