scious of it. Lately, when he crossed his long legs, the touch of the back of his ankle against the front of hers was like a sharp caress to Reba. What was it to him, she wondered? She was careful always to sit very still, almost inert in her place beside him, neither moving toward him, as if to invite, nor drawing away, as if to forbid; half-curious, half-enticed, full of wonderment as to how much she was manufacturing of his pleasure in her nearness, how much, if any, he really felt.
At last, however, there came the red-letter night, when all Reba's doubt as to her companion's awareness of her closeness to him was swept away by the stealthy imprisoning of her bare left hand in his good right one.
Her hand was not lying, as usual, far away from him, in her lap, but innocently on the edge of the seat, in the dark, deep space between them. The first touch of the sailor's fingers had almost choked Reba, and the gradual enveloping of her hand in his had made her heart pound, and sent the blood rushing to her face.
What ought she to do? He had her hand imprisoned closely now! Might it not hurt his feelings if she made a motion of disapproval? He was so sensitive—so fearful always that he would offend. Reba sat very still. How strange—it swooped down upon her how strange a thing it was to feel her hand enclosed like this. She shut her eyes. It hadn't been all vain imagining then. He had been aware! Oh, surely, she admonished herself, she was not doing right to sit motionless like this. All her instincts told her she was tasting forbidden fruit. And yet—
