''I think he will kiss me. Will he do that?''
Again, I felt her breath on my face. I felt the word, kiss. Again, I blushed.
''Will he?'' she said. ''
''Yes, miss.''
I felt her nod. ''On my cheek?'' she said. ''My mouth?''
''On your mouth, I should say.''
''On my mouth. Of course . . .'' She lifted her hands to her face: I saw at last, through the darkness, the whiteness of her gloves, heard the brushing of her fingers across her lips. The sound seemed greater than it ought to have done. The bed seemed closer and blacker than ever. I wished the rush-light had not burned out. I wished—I think it was the only time I ever did—that the clock would chime. There was only the silence, with her breath in it. Only the darkness, and her pale hands. The world might have shrunk, or fallen away.
''What else,'' she asked, ''will he want me to do?''
I thought, ''Say it quick. Quick will be best. Quick and plain.'' But it was hard to be plain, with her.
''He will want,'' I said, after a moment, ''to embrace you.''
Her hand grew still. I think she blinked. I think I heard it. She said,
''You mean, to stand with me in his arms?''
She said it, and I pictured her, all at once, in Gentleman''s grip. I saw them standing—as you do see men and girls, sometimes, at night, in the Borough, in doorways or up against walls. You turn your eyes. I tried to turn my eyes, now—but, of course, could not, for there was nothing to turn them to, there was only the darkness. My mind flung figures on it, bright as lantern slides.