Read Guy Renton for Free Online Page B

was a look that made or seemed to make of that pause, a challenge.
    â€œRenée ...” he began, then checked.
    For a moment her fingers, her long slim fingers with the long pointed nails were folded over his. For a moment then her door had closed.
    Back in his room, he stared irresolute at his half-packed suitcase. That pause, that look, the way she had danced, what had they meant? Had they meant anything?
    He had only known her for three days. She was married. She had a child. Her husband was joining her to-morrow. She had talked of him with pride. Even if she was not in love with him, why should she with a whole world to pick from fall at sight for somebody like himself? She’d given up three days to him; yes,but only because she’d been alone, because she’d been bored, because she had needed someone to be squired by.
    She was an American, too, that made a difference. He’d been told how often, how easily an Englishman could misunderstand one. All these petting parties; a national pastime that meant nothing. “Don’t be a fool,” he told himself. “When you saw her on that first evening across the lounge, it was like something hitting you below the heart, when she looks at you in that teasing way of hers, when she speaks in that contralto voice like . . . like . . . like what?” He checked, searching for a simile, searching in vain; he could not find one. It had been like nothing he had known before, and because it had been like that for him, he had tried to persuade himself that it had been like that for her, had read meanings into a smile, a fancied pause.
    Impatient, irresolute, he paced his room. Did it matter what she had meant or what she hadn’t meant? It was what he felt, what she meant to him that mattered. Never in his life had there been anyone like her. He had to tell her that. He might never see her again. He had to tell her all that these three days had meant. He could not say good-bye like that, a casual parting in a corridor.
    He listened at his door. There was no sound of voices. From the hall came the wail of the saxophone, loudening in the final foxtrots. On slippered feet he hurried past the row of doors. His nervousness, his indecision were forgotten. His fingers did not tremble as they turned the handle. He was fired and sustained by the need to express in words, which the mood would find for him, all that these three days had meant.
    She was seated at her dressing-table. He could see her reflection in the mirror. She did not start. No look of surprise crossed her face. She turned in her chair and faced him.
    â€œSo you
have
come,” she said, then smiled.
    He lifted himself upon his elbow. The curtains were quarter drawn. A waxing moon silvered the room with twilight, poetizing the bare bleak furniture. Outside, a frost-bound night rimed the balcony with ice. It was warm here in the heated room. Slowly he drew the palm of his hand along her shoulder. He had not known, he had not guessed that anything could be so smooth.From every nerve cell of his body, from every nerve cell of his brain, from every vein and artery of his heart, rose the words clamorous and insistent that would express his wonder, his gratitude, his adoration.
    â€œBeloved, if you only knew ...”
    She checked him; she lifted her hand against his mouth.
    â€œDon’t speak, words spoil things.”
    In a slow caress, she passed her palm along his cheek. Her nails were long; he could feel their points like sharpened spears as her arm coiled about his neck. Her fingers tightened in his hair, drawing his face back beside her. He relaxed vibrant to their pressure.
    Later, hours later, she stirred beside him.
    â€œDarling, it’s getting late,” she said.
    He shook himself out of his doze. The room was darkening. The moon had sunk. The jagged outline of the Eiger was black against the sky.
    â€œDarling, you must go, truly.”
    Her voice was drowsy, affectionate but