Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/45

Soma released her hand. "If it won't be too much bother," he said apologetically.

She started to fuss about the table, his burning eyes following her every movement. It was as if his fanged fever had devoured his body, but could not consume his passionate eyes. With every twist and turn of her body his eyes became more intense. He had never thought her a beauty; it was rather to her modesty that he had felt himself attracted, her virgin gestures like a night blooming flower that trembles in the cool moonlight. But now! The freshness of a ripe, luscious apple glowing with sunshine. "Or perhaps I'm just imagining it," Soma thought, and wiped his forehead. "Lately I've been imagining so many things. . . Can I be as far gone as all that? It must be the results of the drugs."

Aloud he said, "Would you please give me a glass of cold water?" Maybe the coolness would bring him to his senses. There was so much he had decided to talk to her about; so much he wanted to tell her-about the library, his diary, the letters to his mother... Of course-there was no use fooling himself-she had never been anything more than polite to him. He could tell; he had had plenty of experience with women. A sort of erotic shudder trembled over his flesh. His glazed eyes took on a faraway look. His pale thin lips moved tensely.

Anna came towards him with the glass of water. Her breasts behind the white blouse loomed large before his vision. The glass of water trembled in his hand and spilled, drops of water flecking her skirt.

Anna glanced at the clock that was ticking away under the red-shaded lamp. "Half-past eight!" she exclaimed involuntarily. She looked despairingly at the pan of water seething on the stove. A notion flashed through her mind. She would