letting his hands see for him, every vestige of consciousness directed to his mouth, to Sophie's mouth—he scarcely knew which. Wild new unmannerly instincts invaded and conquered him: famished instincts, greedy and cruel. Feelings suddenly blossomed where before had only been bulbs buried deep in his soil.
A smothered cry checked him, and, without knowing how he had got there, he found himself sitting shyly on the sofa beside Sophie, his hand in one of hers, while she, with her free hand, restored the havoc he had wrought with her coiffure,—he who had hitherto been almost apologetic about helping her into a car!
They had spoken no word since his abrupt entrance, and he could think of nothing to say now. He would rather have died than translate into words his new feelings. Sophie too seemed transformed, as though the revelation of what was in him—or her!—had drained her. She looked like the sort of little girl one calls old-fashioned: grave, precocious, incongruous. And even as he watched her she turned again into a woman of the world, unsurprisable: a woman of the world who looked as though the worst, thank God, had come to the worst and what a pity! He was both thrilled and abashed by the changes in her. He felt suddenly young and empty and schoolboyish; what reserve of experience had he with which to meet the half humorous light that was creeping into Sophie's eyes! In a minute she might make fun of him.
Instead she pressed his hand against her forehead,
