Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

A MOSAIC
dread when he heard I was going to the ball and, finally, the snapping
of his self-control when, at last, we were alone and he could show
me what he felt.
It was all written on his face. I pulled off my mask, for I wanted
him to see me as clearly as possible and to realise that his pathetic
temerity had gained its reward—besides—I disliked his wife, and I
felt that there were many scores that I could help to wipe out. I didn't
want him to think, that what I had done, I had done out of pity; he
attracted me, and I meant he should know it. I wasn't ashamed of it.
He waited patiently and a little anxiously, but when my face became
revealed to his gaze and his eyes caught mine, he suddenly caught me
to him and kissed me. I shut my eyes and lay in his arms.
There was a sofa in the corner and, presently, we sat down. He
put him arms round me and rested his head on my shoulder. Through
the little window I could see the lights of the hotel, and the door out
of which we had come. Two shadows crossed it and were lost in the
darkness of the garden. I felt his hands steal to my shoulder and crush
the camellias he had given me; I pulled out one and he put it to his
lips. Then all at once, I heard a noise and looked up; the door had
opened a man was peering in; over his shoulder, I caught sight of a
shock of red hair and a small pearl necklace. It shut again quickly.
Had he heard? Had he seen? I don't know—anyhow he gave no sign,
only lifted his face to mine, and I kissed him.
Five minutes later I was back in my room.
Wednesday evening.
To-night she was alone. She-greeted me with a brilliant smile.
Poor little Van de Voorde.