A faint, a
quizzical smile flitted over her face; she shrugged her shoulders ever
so gently. That gesture--he had seen it before! And in desperate desire
to make her understand, he put his hand on her lifted arm.
"Kathleen, stop--listen to me!" His fingers tightened in his agitation
and eagerness to make his great discovery known. But before he could get
out a word he became conscious of that cool round arm, conscious of her
eyes half-closed, sliding round at him, of her half-smiling lips, of her
neck under the wrapper. And he stammered:
"I want--I must--Kathleen, I---"
She lifted her shoulders again in that little shrug. "Yes--I know; all
right!"
A wave of heat and shame, and of God knows what came over Mr. Bosengate;
he fell on his knees and pressed his forehead to her arm; and he was
silent, more silent than the grave. Nothing--nothing came from him
but two long sighs. Suddenly he felt her hand stroke his
cheek--compassionately, it seemed to him. She made a little movement
towards him; her lips met his, and he remembered nothing but that....
In his own room Mr. Bosengate sat at his wide open window, smoking a
cigarette; there was no light.
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