ascended from her cigarette when she leaned back and held it at arm's length,—rose-gray smoke, lilac smoke, smoke from the ashes of the unknown flower whose spirit clung to her. His head was full of iridiscent, forbidden fancies, a spectrum in pastels. Some mysterious fusion could deepen the colors, blur them ecstatically together, cause him to forget everything he had ever diligently learned for something worth it all, something blinding and deafening ending in a blissful hush.
She was at home, writing letters at her desk. Looking up as he entered, she laid down her pen with a strange little expectant finality. He hesitated a moment, then as she stood up, he came forward precipitately, as though he had an important message, then stopped short, realizing he had none. Sophie raised her arms as naturally as his mother might have done, and as naturally he found himself in them, found Sophie pressed against him, then fitting him, as though he were a mould she had been poured into. Even in disorderly flights of imagination he had never realized that an embrace could be such a from-head-to-foot experience. His whole body had become sensitive; it was like catching sight of one's emotional contours in a mirror. The surprise of it brought him to himself, made him draw away and look at Sophie. Her eyes showed nothing of his own astonishment; they were seeing farther ahead, and swimming a little.
Dazed, he surged forward again, closing his eyes,
