It was Visigoth at her shoulder, the male aroma of him, a mixture of
cigar smoke, bay rum, and freshly washed hands, and the feel of his
rough-serge suit very close.
She rose, withholding herself stiffly from his nearness, marveling, as
always, at this power of hers to endure him so casually.
"Letters?" she asked.
He placed a knee on the chair rung, tilting it toward him, and leaning
across the back at her.
"You funny, funny girl," he said, regarding her intently through the
crinkling eyes.
She met his stare in a challenging sort of silence.
"My, what big eyes you have!"
"Please," she said, retreating from the look in his, her weight against
the table until it slid.
"Please what?" he rather mimicked, advancing the exact distance of her
withdrawal, the smile out on his never quite dry lips.
"Please--don't."
The corpulency which was one day to envelop him like suet was already
giving him the appearance of ten years his senior. He had upon occasion
been mistaken for the father of his younger brother, and some of
Lilly's acute distaste for him, across the slight enough chasm of the
seven or eight years between them, was already that of youth for
lascivious age.
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