Condy's cigarette was a mere red point in the half-darkness. The
smoke drifted out of the open window in long, blue strata. At his
elbow Blix was leaning forward, looking down upon the darkening,
drowsing city, her round, strong chin propped upon her hand. She
was just close enough for Candy to catch the sweet, delicious
feminine perfume that came indefinitely from her clothes, her
hair, her neck. From where Condy sat he could see the silhouette
of her head and shoulders against the dull golden blur of the open
window; her round, high forehead, with the thick yellow hair
rolling back from her temples and ears, her pink, clean cheeks,
her little dark-brown, scintillating eyes, and her firm red mouth,
made all the firmer by the position of her chin upon her hand. As
ever, her round, strong neck was swathed high and tight in white
satin; but between the topmost fold of the satin and the rose of
one small ear-lobe was a little triangle of white skin, that was
partly her neck and partly her cheek, and that Condy knew should
be softer than down, smoother than satin, warm and sweet and
redolent as new apples. Condy imagined himself having the right
to lean toward her there and kiss that little spot upon her neck
or her cheek; and as he fancied it, was surprised to find his
breath come suddenly quick, and a barely perceptible qualm, as of
a certain faintness, thrill him to his finger-tips; and then, he
thought, how would it be if he could, without fear of rebuff,
reach out his arm and put it about her trim, firm waist, and draw
her very close to him, till he should feel the satiny coolness of
her smooth cheek against his; till he could sink his face in the
delicious, fragrant confusion of her hair, then turn that face to
his--that face with its strong, calm mouth and sweet, full lips--
the face of this dear young girl of nineteen, and then--
"I say--I--shall we--let's read again.
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