She seemed to
take it for granted that he would at last marry Sheba after wearing away
the rigid Puritanism of her resentment.
Macdonald had never liked her so well as now. Her point of view was so
sane, so reasonable. It asked for no impossible virtues in a man. There
was something restful in her genial, derisive understanding of him. She
had a silent divination of his moods and ministered indolently to them.
"Do you think so? Ought I to follow her?" he asked.
She showed a row of perfect teeth in a low ripple of amusement. The
situation at least was piquant, even though it was at her expense.
"No. Give the girl time. Catch her impulse on the rebound. She'll be
bored to death at Katma and she will come back docile."
Her scarlet lips, the long, unbroken lines of the sinuous, opulent body,
the challenge of the smouldering eyes, the warmth of her laughter, all
invited him to forget the charms of other women. The faint feminine
perfume of her was wafted to his brain. He felt a besieging of the
blood.
Stepping behind the chair in which she sat, he tilted back the head of
lustrous bronze, and very deliberately kissed her on the lips.
For a moment she gave herself to his embrace, then pushed him back,
rose, and walked across the room to a little table.
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