oolong.”
“Kissmeagain.”
Bertha,halfsmiling,halfintears,putherarmsroundhisneckandkissedthesoft,boyishlips.
“Youaregoodtome,”hewhispered.
ThentheywalkedtothestationinsilenceandeventuallyreachedChelsea.Attheflat-doorBerthaheldoutherhandandGeraldlookedatherwithasadnessthatalmostbrokeherheart,thenhejusttouchedherfingersandturnedaway.
ButwhenBerthawasaloneinherroom,shethrewherselfdownandburstintotears.ForsheknewatlastthatshelovedhimGerald’skissesstillburnedonherlipsandthetouchofhishandswastremulousonherarms.Suddenlysheknewthatshehaddeceivedherselfitwasmorethanfriendshipthatheldherheartasinaviceitwasmorethanaffectionitwaseager,vehementlove.
Foramomentshewasoverjoyed,butquicklyrememberedthatshewasmarried,thatshewasyearsolderthanhe—toaboynineteenawomenoftwenty-sixmustappearalmostmiddle-aged.Sheseizedaglassandlookedatherselfshetookittothelightsothatthetestmightbemoresearching,andscrutinisedherfaceforwrinklesandforcrow’sfeet,thesignsofdepartingyouth.
“It’sabsurd,”shesaid.“I’mmakinganutterfoolofmyself.”
Geraldonlythoughthelovedher,inaweekhewouldbeenamouredofsomegirlhemetonthesteamer.Butthinkingofhislove,Berthacouldnotdoubtthatnowatalleventsitwasrealsheknewbetterthananyonewhatlovewas.Sheexultedtothinkthathiswasthereallove,andcompareditwithherhusband’spallidflame.Geraldlovedherwithallhisheart,withallhissoulhetrembledwithdesireathertouchandhispassionwasanagonythatblanchedhischeek.Shecouldnotmistaketheeagerlongingofhiseyes.Ah,thatwastheloveshewanted—thelovethatkillsandthelovethatengenders.Howcouldsheregretthathelovedher?Shestoodup,stretchingoutherarmsintriumph,andintheemptyroom,herlipsformedthewords—
“Come,mybeloved,come—forIloveyou!”
Butthemorningbroughtanintolerabledepression.Berthasawthentheutterfutilityofherlove:hermarriage,hisdeparture,madeitimpossiblethedisparityofagemadeitevengrotesque.Butshecouldnotdulltheachingofherheart,shecouldnotstophertears.
Geraldarrivedatmiddayandfoundheralone.Heapproachedalmosttimidly.
“Y