was fast becoming abnormally increased, and she did not find it over-much. She was only too content to be caught up in his arms and kissed as he began to kiss her then. He became dynamically and startlingly alive; his grip about her seemed to burn into her flesh. He had changed too quickly for her to respond at once and when her mood rose to meet his he had begun to curb his own. He grew still, and held her lightly.
She had a queer sensation that she was being disintegrated by this potent personality who was mesmerizing her into following his moods, that she was being used as an instrument for the play of his mind and his emotion. And the queerest thing about it was that she did not mind.
But the evening did not proceed as she had imagined it might. He took out his pipe, and when he struck the match to light it he looked at his watch.
“It’s eleven, dear. I must get you home.”
Valerie did not want to go home. She almost said so. But she sat up, and a little chilled, more mentally than physically, drew the rug over her knees while he started the engine. When he had the Diana out in midstream he put an arm about her and then appeared to forget her. She wondered as they went on how many women had loved him without understanding him in the least. She was beginning to see that certainly no woman of the society type, caught at first by his looks, could follow the meanderings of his moods, or be satisfied for long by the capriciousness of his attention. But she saw him impersonally as well as personally. She was able, even while succumbing to his looks and charm, to stand off from him and see him for the baffling and appealing creature that he was. She was able to see him against his heredity, against his background, his strengths set against his own weaknesses, his accomplishments against his failures.
