Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
"Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a
certain pitch--too tight--and something inside of me had snapped." She
rested her head against the table upon her bare arm.
"You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you
and let you rest."
"Yes," she replied.
He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic
hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could
have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand
over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck.
"I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said. "You
have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last
straw; you might have dispensed with it."
"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid."
"No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed
to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh
to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon
the shoulder.
"I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.
"I am, after I have said good night."
"Good night," she murmured.
He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good
night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties.