Page:The Trespasser, Lawrence, 1912.djvu/46

38 aimlessly. Once, in the startling inflammability of his blood, his veins ran hot, and he smiled.

When Helena entered the room his eyes sought hers swiftly, as sparks lighting on the tinder. But her eyes were only moist with tenderness. His look instantly changed. She wondered at his being so silent, so strange.

Coming to him in her unhesitating, womanly way—she was only twenty-six to his thirty-eight—she stood before him, holding both his hands and looking down on him with almost gloomy tenderness. She wore a white dress that showed her throat gathering like a fountain-jet of solid foam to balance her head. He could see the full white arms passing clear through the dripping spume of lace, towards the rise of her breasts. But her eyes bent down upon him with such gloom of tenderness that he dared not reveal the passion burning in him. He could not look at her. He strove almost pitifully to be with her sad, tender, but he could not put out his fire. She held both his hands firm, pressing them in appeal for her dream love. He glanced at her wistfully, then turned away. She waited for him. She wanted his caresses and tenderness. He would not look at her.

“You would like supper now, dear?” she asked, looking where the dark hair ended, and his neck ran smooth, under his collar, to the strong setting of his shoulders.

“Just as you will,” he replied.

Still she waited, and still he would not look at her. Something troubled him, she thought. He was foreign to her.

“I will spread the cloth, then,” she said, in deep tones of resignation. She pressed his hands closely,