The girl started, turned round, her eyes lit up with an
almost painful flash of a smile, the colour came deeply in her
cheeks.
"Yes, it was," she said, quite meaninglessly, and she covered
her rather prominent teeth with her lips. Then she sat looking
straight before her, seeing nothing, only conscious of the
colour burning in her cheeks.
It pricked him with a pleasant sensation. His veins and his
nerves attended to her, she was so young and palpitating.
"It's not such a good programme as last week's," he said.
Again she half turned her face to him, and her clear, bright
eyes, bright like shallow water, filled with light, frightened,
yet involuntarily lighting and shaking with response.
"Oh, isn't it! I wasn't able to come last week."
He noted the common accent. It pleased him. He knew what
class she came of. Probably she was a warehouse-lass. He was
glad she was a common girl.
He proceeded to tell her about the last week's programme. She
answered at random, very confusedly. The colour burned in her
cheek. Yet she always answered him. The girl on the other side
sat remotely, obviously silent. He ignored her. All his address
was for his own girl, with her bright, shallow eyes and her
vulnerably opened mouth.
The talk went on, meaningless and random on her part, quite
deliberate and purposive on his. It was a pleasure to him to
make this conversation, an activity pleasant as a fine game of
chance and skill. He was very quiet and pleasant-humoured, but
so full of strength. She fluttered beside his steady pressure of
warmth and his surety.
He saw the performance drawing to a close. His senses were
alert and wilful. He would press his advantages. He followed her
and her plain friend down the stairs to the street. It was
raining.
"It's a nasty night," he said. "Shall you come and have a
drink of something--a cup of coffee--it's early
yet."
"Oh, I don't think so," she said, looking away into the
night.
"I wish you would," he said, putting himself as it were at
her mercy. There was a moment's pause.
"Come to Rollins?" he said.
"No--not there."
"To Carson's, then?"
There was a silence. The other girl hung on. The man was the
centre of positive force.
"Will your friend come as well?"
There was another moment of silence, while the other girl
felt her ground.
"No, thanks," she said. "I've promised to meet a friend."
"Another time, then?" he said.
"Oh, thanks," she replied, very awkward.
"Good night," he said.
"See you later," said his girl to her friend.
"Where?" said the friend.
"You know, Gertie," replied his girl.
"All right, Jennie."
The friend was gone into the darkness. He turned with his
girl to the tea-shop. They talked all the time. He made his
sentences in sheer, almost muscular pleasure of exercising
himself with her. He was looking at her all the time, perceiving
her, appreciating her, finding her out, gratifying himself with
her. He could see distinct attractions in her; her eyebrows,
with their particular curve, gave him keen aesthetic pleasure.
Later on he would see her bright, pellucid eyes, like shallow
water, and know those. And there remained the open, exposed
mouth, red and vulnerable. That he reserved as yet. And all the
while his eyes were on the girl, estimating and handling with
pleasure her young softness. About the girl herself, who or what
she was, he cared nothing, he was quite unaware that she was
anybody. She was just the sensual object of his attention.