Page:Conflict (1927).pdf/14

 ter with her lately? Even happiness hurt her sometimes now. Even beauty. Got inside and seemed to swell and press. But this was not happiness. This was not beauty. No! Oh, why had she gone skating this afternoon on Sabin's Pond?

She still wore her heavy white sweater and cap to match. The cap was pulled down over her forehead close above her eyes, as clear and blue as aquamarine and as full of sharp white lights now. She pulled off the sweater over her head, dragging the cap away also, and emerged, tossed and crumpled. She sat down before her dressing-table and gazed at herself again.

'Felix Nawn.' She repeated the words out loud slowly as if feeling of them with her voice. 'Felix Nawn.'

Felix. What a name! The boys called him 'Pastey'—because he was so pale and white, she supposed. Well—it was better than Felix. More American. Less to be made fun of. She was ashamed of his name. She was ashamed of him, yet sorry for the name too. Sorry for him. She was pleased and gratified by his strange, silent caring. Displeased and humiliated. Desired it, and desired to escape it. Sought it, and fought it. Was allured and repelled, was exhilarated and dejected, confident and afraid, all in one day—all in one moment, it seemed to her. Strong opposing feelings gripping