her loose, looped gown. The scarlet slashings were its lining exposed at the neck and in the sleeves; scarlet, or near to scarlet, was the spot of her lips. The spot pursed and parted but she did not speak. She was looking at him.
Between them, off by the wall to his right and badly concealed by a Chinese screen, was her bed, as she had lain in it. She had arisen from it, thrusting her toes into scarlet satin mules which left her white heels bare. The black and scarlet peignoir parted and exposed her blue silk pajama jacket clinging close to her firm, small bosom. He noticed her, with no stir at all—and he needed to feel stir; he wanted to, and he couldn't.
"How glad you look!" she cast at him. "How damn glad you look!"
It was his own word of the telegram he had sent her, binding himself to her, binding himself to go through with this. "Be glad!" he had told her. "I am!" But now she saw him.
"How damn glad you look!"
He closed the door behind him, and after this half second of halt, advanced to her, smiling, or meaning to smile. An arm's length from her, just before he could touch her, he halted again as though something external stopped him. For he had meant to go directly to her and seize her. With her in his arms, he could do it gladly—or seem to do it gladly. She stirred him, excited and warmed him when he held her. But now he had stopped.
She darted a look into his eyes, down at his lips, at his forehead, at his lips, into his eyes again. She sat not still, as she seemed from a little distance, but constantly
