He caught her in his arms and held her fast. Her cheek was against his. It was soft and smelled faintly of the powder she used. He kissed her lips, and she responded. It was in such situations that Eddie felt the need of honeyed phrases. At such times, other fellows whispered pet names and extravagant compliments. He could only press her against himself and kiss her.
"I like you an awful lot, Eddie."
"Do you?"
"Don't you like me?"
"Sure."
"You didn't say so."
"Didn't I?"
"You know you didn't."
He kissed her again to silence her. Her body was sweetly, fragrantly warm. It was a perennial warmth independent of climate. It would be there when August had gone, when the Burma lay asleep and dreaming of starry silver nights on the river. When the whistling, humming herd was no longer whistling and humming "It Ain't Gonna Rain No More."
She drew herself away from Eddie and faced the stairs again. Kisses were different here with the fading rug and the unhappy chairs looking on in silent, shocked amazement. It wasn't like the boat. Dot arduously examined a tiny nick in one of the ukulele strings. She hated to look at Eddie. No, it wasn't at all like the boat.
"I got to go," she said. Her words trampled on each other; some survived, others were lost. "I'll get murdered. See you Thursday night at eight. Good night."
She scrambled hastily up the marble steps, pausing on the second landing to hear the door slam. He was going home. Where was that? A little panicky feeling leaped within her. She didn't know where he lived. Suppose he should disappoint her Thursday night; she might never see him again. The pert little bob tossed indifferently.
