Титан

Undercurrents

           Cowperwoodwasinterestedbyhisstandingfigurehiseyes,hishairbuthewasmuchmoreinterestedinMrs.Sohlberg,towhomhislookconstantlystrayed.Hewatchedherhandsonthekeys,herfingers,thedimplesatherelbows.Whatanadorablemouth,hethought,andwhatlight,fluffyhair!But,morethanthat,therewasamoodthatinvesteditallabitoftintedcolorofthemindthatreachedhimandmadehimsympatheticandevenpassionatetowardher.Shewasthekindofwomanhewouldlike.ShewassomewhatlikeAileenwhenshewassixyearsyounger(Aileenwasnowthirty-three,andMrs.Sohlbergtwenty-seven),onlyAileenhadalwaysbeenmorerobust,morevigorous,lessnebulous.Mrs.Sohlberg(hefinallythoughtitoutforhimself)wasliketherichtintedinteriorofaSouthSeaoyster-shellwarm,colorful,delicate.Buttherewassomethingfirmthere,too.Nowhereinsocietyhadheseenanyonelikeher.Shewasrapt,sensuous,beautiful.Hekepthiseyesonheruntilfinallyshebecameawarethathewasgazingather,andthenshelookedbackathiminanarch,smilingway,fixinghermouthinapotentline.Cowperwoodwascaptivated.Wasshevulnerable?washisonethought.Didthatfaintsmilemeananythingmorethanmeresocialcomplaisance?Probablynot,butcouldnotatemperamentsorichandfullbeawakenedtofeelingbyhisown?Whenshewasthroughplayinghetookoccasiontosay:"Wouldn’tyouliketostrollintothegallery?Areyoufondofpictures?"Hegaveherhisarm.

           "Now,youknow,"saidMrs.

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