He whispered this to Savina, in his arms; but she would permit no
criticism of him. It was time, she discovered, for them to dress for
their party: "I don't want you to go. Why can't you be with me? But
then, the servants! Lee, I am going to die when you leave. Tell me, how
can I live, what am I to do, without you?" Since no satisfactory reply
to that was possible, he stopped her troubled voice with a kiss. It was
remarkable how many they had exchanged.
He had the feeling, the hope, that, with nothing irrevocable
consummated, their parting would be easier; but he began to lose that
comfortable assurance. Again in his room, in the heavy choking folds of
velvet draperies, he was grave; the mere excitation of the night before
had gone. What was this, he asked himself, that he had got into? What
had Cytherea to do with it? Ungallantly the majority of his thoughts
were engaged with the possibility, the absolute necessity, of escape.
By God, he must get out of it, or rather, get it out of him! But it
wasn't too late; he could even finish the day, this delight, with
safety. Savina would recover--she had already thanked him for his self-
control.
It was fortunate that she was a woman of distinction, of
responsibilities, with a delicate habit of mind; another might have
brought disaster, followed him to Eastlake. He recalled a story of
George Sand tearing off her bodice before the house of a man she loved.
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