Her grave fine face, her warm clear complexion, had already aroused his curiosity as he had gone to and fro in Morningside Park, and here suddenly he was near to her and talking freely and intimately. He got off on it. Your name. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. She nuzzled his chest and he breathed deeply of the scent of her Finesse conditioner. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. That was one of the compensations for having consigned himself to this part of the world. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss.
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