Page:Levenson - Butterfly Man.djvu/267

Rh "You don't act like it. It's dark here—"

"I haven't got the nerve," he admitted.

"But you're way past twenty. Haven't you ever—"

"Never."

The man in the corner rose and went into the car.

"Shall we try?" Ken asked. He was positively excited. It was delicious, novel, rare—almost immoral.

He caught her in his arms and kissed her.

"Very talented," she commented. "Thank heaven for kissproof rouge."

"And for you," he said.

"Thanks," she curtsied, swayed with the train and was again in his arms.

He held her, silent, the night air caressing their cheeks. Long minutes thus. The train slowed down. They stood apart. The darkness had created an illusion. Mind with the speed of lightning flashed back to a memory.

This thrill—was it a thrill? Was it potent? Or just an illusion?

Difficult to know the truth. The car door opened. "It's Mamma," she said. "It's a man," he said. He did not move, only his eyes veering to the left.

The man went to the other side of the platform and gazed out into the receding night.

"I'm going in," she said. "I'm chilly. And Mamma might complain. Meet me in five minutes in Car Four."

"I will," he said.

She slipped away, eyes petulant yet amused.

"Have you a match?" the man inquired.

"A lighter," said Ken.

Orange flame flickered and went out. They moved to the shelter of the door, but again the flame died.