he wanted. Afterwards she did not want to get away from him as she had with Clem. This must be love.
The next afternoon at the hotel on the Sound they rolled up the shades and watched the little yachts bobbing in the harbor. He would stop her with a kiss if she asked a question the least bit serious so that by the time they drove back to the city she felt that while they had made love many times, it was like always starting over and over without getting any farther. They seemed to stay at the same point, but then it probably took a long time to feel close to someone. Though she could not help thinking that all those words he wanted her to say over and over were silly even if they excited him so.
She was glad to get home Monday afternoon. Mother said, "I'm glad you had a good time. You look much better. It did you good to get away."
Now that's funny, Lucy reflected, why do I look better? I do feel better, but I don't feel different because Carly made love to me.
Trying to be in love with Carly made Lucy serious. She decided it was like dancing, you had to work hard at it. She liked being with him, especially dancing with him; but in lovemaking he was rough and seemed to forget about her, as though any girl would do. And as though he hated her. Yet before and afterwards he always said he loved her. It was puzzling because while it was exciting to be wanted so hard she never looked forward to the next time, though she didn't mind it, except that some of the things he wanted her to do still seemed silly. He never wanted to talk about his family or how he spent his time away from her. He hardly talked about anything except polo—he was something called a 7-goal man. He told stories about his old colored Mammy or Uncle Reb. He wasn't interested in ballet, and you couldn't get him to talk about books which was queer because he was a college man. He didn't tell her as much about Europe as Lyle, or Clem who knew more than both of them together. He didn't want to ride on top of a bus or go for a walk or do anything except make love. But she was sure she was in love because it was such fun being with him. The way love ought to be and not at all like how Vida's poets wrote, because she never felt sad as though she would die if she never saw him again.
She was touched by his consideration in taking her to the cosy apartment of his friend now in Europe so she wouldn't be embarrassed by having to go to a hotel with him. In her turn she was
