e were a wistful sphinx, made
it necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped his programme, and crouched
down on the floor to get it, so that he could kiss her hand and wrist.
Her beauty was a torture to him. She sat immobile. Only, when the lights
went down, she sank a little against him, and he caressed her hand and
arm with his fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the time
his blood kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed his
consciousness momentarily.

The drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going on somewhere;
he did not know where, but it seemed far away inside him. He was Clara's
white heavy arms, her throat, her moving bosom. That seemed to be
himself. Then away somewhere the play went on, and he was identified
with that also. There was no himself. The grey and black eyes of Clara,
her bosom coming down on him, her arm that he held gripped between his
hands, were all that existed. Then he felt himself small and helpless,
her towering in her force above him.

Only the intervals, when the lights came up, hurt him expressibly. He
wanted to run anywhere, so long as it would be dark again. In a maze,
he wandered out for a drink. Then the lights were out, and the strange,
insane reality of Clara and the drama took hold of him again.

The play went on. But he was obsessed by the desire to kiss the tiny
blue vein that nestled in the bend of her arm. He could feel it. His
whole face seemed suspended till he had put his lips there. It must be
done. And the other people! At last he bent quickly forward and touched
it with his lips. His moustache brushed the sensitive flesh. Clara
shivered, drew away her arm.

When all was over, the lights up, the people clapping, he came to
himself and looked at his watch. His train was gone.

"I s'll have to walk home!" he said.

Clara looked at him.

"It is too late?" she asked.

He nodded. Then he helped her on with her coat.

"I love you! You look beautiful in that dress," he murmured over her
shoulder, among the throng of bustling people.

She remained quiet. Together they went out of the theatre. He saw the
cabs waiting, the people passing. It seemed he met a pair of brown
eyes which hated him. But he did not know. He and Clara turned away,
mechanically taking the direction to the station.

The train had gone. He would have to walk the ten miles home.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "I shall enjoy it."

"Won't you," she said, flushing,