In love with life, she made him feel that he was
letting things slip by. And since to drink deep of life was his nature,
too--what chance had he of escape? Far-off cousinhood is a dangerous
relationship. Its familiarity is not great enough to breed contempt, but
sufficient to remove those outer defences to intimacy, the conquest of
which, in other circumstances, demands the conscious effort which warns
people whither they are going.
Summerhay had not realized the extent of the danger, but he had known
that it existed, especially since Scotland. It would be interesting--as
the historians say--to speculate on what he would have done, if he could
have foretold what would happen. But he had certainly not foretold the
crisis of yesterday evening. He had received a telegram from her at
lunch-time, suggesting the fulfilment of a jesting promise, made in
Scotland, that she should have tea with him and see his chambers--a
small and harmless matter. Only, why had he dismissed his clerk so
early? That is the worst of gamblers--they will put a polish on the
risks they run. He had not reckoned, perhaps, that she would look so
pretty, lying back in his big Oxford chair, with furs thrown open so
that her white throat showed, her hair gleaming, a smile coming and
going on her lips; her white hand, with polished nails, holding that
cigarette; her brown eyes, so unlike Gyp's, fixed on him; her slim foot
with high instep thrust forward in transparent stocking.
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