Chiffon Scarf Read Online Free PDF Page B

her face. She started to speak—and forgot what she’d intended to say. There was a long, hushed moment, deeply expectant.
    Then Jim moved and dropped his cigarette into the pool. There was a little hiss as it struck the water; a bird stirred somewhere in the shrubbery.
    It happened suddenly, without warning.
    Jim all at once leaned nearer, very close above her; instinctively, irresistibly, without knowing she was going to do it, she put up her mouth to meet his. Their lips met quickly and instantly drew apart.
    It hadn’t been planned; it was an indescribably brief, impulsive gesture. It was less a definite, intentional act than it was a moment of reality, a moment of being off guard, a moment of surrender to a deep inner compulsion. So new a compulsion that neither of them had yet recognized and labeled it as forbidden and set up a barricade against it.
    They drew instantly apart. Neither spoke. As if still moved by that mysterious compulsion they turned and walked slowly through the silent dusk together toward the path. Halfway along the path Jim said:
    “Eden—please do believe me. I can’t apologize.”
    He was right, of course; apology would be absurd. Explanation would be dangerous. Any possible words were better left unsaid.
    “Of course.”
    He swung around toward her, trying to see her face through the dusk.
    “Eden—” She wished the brief touch of his mouth didn’t cling so warmly to her lips. She took a long breath and said abruptly:
    “I know. Shall we go on?”
    “I wonder if you do know.”
    She caught herself on the very verge of swaying a little toward him, irresistibly again. As naturally as her breath came and her heart beat. She said a little unsteadily, almost frightened:
    “Averill is waiting.”
    Averill. And a wedding, four days away. Suppose they did feel that they’d known each other since the world was set in motion; that was all wrong. She and the man beside her had met for the first time an hour—two hours ago and he was to marry Averill.
    And, now, Averill stood like a sword, like an implacable empress all in white, between them.
    Jim said:
    “Yes, of course. But anyway, thanks, Eden.”
    “Thanks—”
    “For being you. All right, shall we go on?”
    Impulse, Eden told herself, walking beside him. Put it down to impulse and forget it.
    But Averill couldn’t begrudge her so small, so brief a thing as that unheralded kiss, taking them both unaware and unarmed, had been.
    Yet she walked beside him without consciousness, really, of anything but their nearness to each other, of the dusk holding them both, of the air they both breathed.
    It hadn’t been the champagne at dinner. She hadn’t been the victim of a mad delusion. The fact was she loved him.
    Queer, she thought presently, how little love concerned itself with time! Or for that matter with one’s will. With millions of men in the world, she’d had to fall in love with the man whom in four days Averill Blaine was to marry.
    There was a kind of ironic humor in that, too. But it was no good trying to laugh about it, even to herself.
    They reached the steps too soon. Averill, poised and certain of herself and of Jim, would be waiting.
    However, no one really was waiting except Bill Blaine who was sunk in the depths of a lounge chair with his bulging shirt front showing dimly white in the dusk. Long areas of light from the library windows streamed out onto the terrace and the empty chairs.
    “Where’s everybody?” said Jim.
    “Creda’s strolling with Pace; you must have met them. Noel’s gone in to telephone the weather bureau again. Averill’s somewhere around.”
    Jim walked over to the table; Eden hesitated and sat down in the shadow near Bill.
    “Where are the plans?” said Jim.
    “Averill took them inside. Looks as if we’d better make the flight pretty early tomorrow, Jim. Noel says there’s threatened rain and fog tomorrow.”
    “It’s clear now. But you can make it any time. Engine’s all tuned up.