She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. I should have gone mad without it. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. I suppose because it IS the chief thing in life. His expression became pained. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. Slowly and ruefully she realized why marriage was so idealized among her generations of those before her. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. You know how stubborn they get.
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