Oh, it had been easy enough to talk of love in a
lofty, superior impersonal way that New Year's day. Just
the luxury of speaking of it at all, after those weeks of
repression, sufficed. But it is not so easy to be
impersonal and lofty when the touch of a coat sleeve
against your arm sends little prickling, tingling shivers
racing madly through thousands of too taut nerves. It is
not so easy to force the mind and tongue into safe, sane
channels when they are forever threatening to rush together
in an overwhelming torrent that will carry misery and
destruction in its wake. Invariably we talk with feverish
earnestness about the book; about my work at the office;
about Ernst's profession, with its wonderful growth; about
Norah, and Max and the Spalpeens, and the home; about the
latest news; about the weather; about Peter Orme--and then
silence.
At our last meeting things took a new and startling
turn. So startling, so full of temptation and
happiness-that-must-not-be, that I resolved to forbid
myself the pain and joy of being, near him until I could
be quite sure that my grip on Dawn O'Hara was firm,
unshakable and lasting.
Von Gerhard sports a motor-car, a rakish little
craft, built long and low, with racing lines, and a green
complexion, and a nose that cuts through the air like the
prow of a swift boat through water.
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