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It was her occupations
that left him leisure for his own; his leisure was hers to dispose of as
she liked; his energy, including his really prodigious physical prowess,
to be directed toward any object she thought laudable. Six months ago
she would not have laughed--not in that derisive way at least--at the
notion of his going back and beating up the professor.
There had been a thrill, too, in their more sentimental passages. But at
this point, there developed a most perplexing phenomenon. The idea that
he wanted to make love to her, really moved and excited her; set her
imagination to exploring all sorts of roseate mysteries. The first time
he had ever held her hand--it was inside her muff, one icy December day
when he hadn't any gloves on--the memory of the feel of that big hand,
and of the timbre of his voice, left her starry-eyed with a new wonder.
She dreamed of other caresses; of wonderful things that he should say to
her and she should say to him.
But here arose the perplexity.


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