And despite herself, Alma, who was not without a young girl's feelings
for nice detail, could thrill to this sartorial svelteness and to the
patent-leather lay of his black hair which caught the light like a
polished floor.
The kind of sweetness he found in Alma he could never articulate even to
himself. In some ways she seemed hardly to have the pressure of vitality
to match his, but on the other hand, just that slower beat to her may
have heightened his sense of prowess. His greatest delight seemed to lie
in her pallid loveliness. "White Honeysuckle," he called her and the
names of all the beautiful white flowers he knew. And then one night, to
the rattle of poker chips from the remote dining-room, he jerked her to
him without preamble, kissing her mouth down tightly against her teeth.
"My sweetheart. My little, white carnation sweetheart. I won't be held
off any longer. I'm going to carry you away for my little moon-flower
wife."
She sprang back prettier than he had ever seen her in the dishevelment
from where his embrace had dragged at her hair.
"You mustn't," she cried, but there was enough of the conquering male in
him to read easily into this a mere plating over her desire.
"You can't hold me at arm's length any longer. You've maddened me for
months.
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