Then Walter is at my side. He takes me away. He questions me. His curiosity. He shows the inevitable sweetness. His eyes pleading in his tormented face. His pleading eyes. He says he admires me. He says he hopes to be my companion. He says he hopes we shall find a spiritual union. His forehead is damp. His hand is damp upon my arm. He wishes to dance. What does one do with a perspiring suitor? I smile. I receive a grateful look in reply. Will he write me love letters? Then he says nothing. He seems detached as he looks around him. How absurd it is to be in his arms, to be dancing at Claire's birthday party with Walter Bramsby. How absurd it is that he has intimate memories of me. He thinks of the encounter in the theater box. Do I know what I want? I want a kiss. I want a sensation of pleasure. I want a feeling of ardor. Instead I have his damp hands. He looks at me again and now I have the longing in his eyes. My misfortune is a deflated balloon somewhere over the Channel. The London Ballooning Society expresses its sympathy to the widow of John Haversham. Walter Bramsby expresses his sympathy to the widow of John Haversham. How bored I am. I thought I would like the party, but I don't like it at all. Will Walter be offended if I tell him how bored I am? Perhaps he thinks me frivolous. Perhaps he thinks only a frivolous woman would fondle a man in a theater box. How stupid he is. I feel the impulse again. I want to hold his root. I want to feel his throbbing. Careful, darling, you'll make an awful scene. You must maintain self-control. You must make an effort of will. You must uphold your dignity.
Later Edward takes me away to the library. He sees the tedium in my face. How considerate he is. He chuckles in his amusement. He says the people in the house are a silly lot. Claire's friends. Too many foreigners. Too much noise. “It might be better to have a moment of quiet. Claire won't mind. I have something new from Turkey. Do you like gold coins? I expect you've never seen any like these.”
The library door is closed, and in a moment my eyes are confronted with the ancient coinage of Asia Minor. All his life Edward has collected things. How obstinate he is about his trivialities. He touches my arm. Is he certain Claire hasn't seen us? Men are so careless. Or perhaps he wishes to provoke a storm. He beams at me. He plays with his gold coins. His interests are so old-fashioned. Gold coins and Saracen daggers. Then he whispers at me that he wants to make love to me again. Shall we have an occasion? A twitch at the corner of his mouth. He breathes heavily. The lust in his eyes is absolute. I have my triumph. I glance at the front of his trousers. I see the firmness.
“I don't know when. Edward, it's impossible.” Dejection in his eyes. “You can't imagine…” A sort of stupor comes over him. What does he want? Our situation is completely outlandish. He remains Claire's husband. He touches my arm. We shall be condemned by society. He leans close to me. He kisses me. His hand moves along my arm. His hand moves again and covers one of my breasts. I touch the front of his trousers. He quivers with excitement. I touch him again. My fingers trace the stiffness. My fingers work to undo his buttons. In a moment I have it. I have his root in my hand. His knob blushes. I push back his cowl to uncover the nut. I squeeze the tip. Edward groans. “My darling…” He stands in evening dress with his penis exposed. Long and hard. What mischief, darling. His root dangling. His face glows. His breath is warm upon my cheek. Claire's husband. Is there any suspicion? Edward murmurs in my ear. My hand closes upon his girth. He whispers at me. “You drive me mad!” How impatient he is. We both watch my hand. My fingers stroking, sliding the cowl back and forth over his angry knob. His face is flushed. He mumbles at me. How nice it is. His excitement in my hand. The pleasure in his throat. His handkerchief appears. “Good Lord!” He spends. I feel the twitching in his root as he spends. I finish the milking. Squeezing the flesh. His groaning as he finishes. His murmuring.
Walter shows me his house in Beauchamp Place. He talks of marriage. He says the essential thing is that we are spiritually alike. He says we shall manage beautifully. His illusions drip from his lips. How tempting it is. Shall I be a wife again? I am weary. “Walter, I don't think I can devote myself to you.”
He nods. He says he admires my directness. He says he wants me to love him. He says he wants me to find myself. He says that after John's awful tragedy, I must regain my happiness. How blind he is. Does he think of my body?
“Let me beg you to consider…” He talks of possibilities. He talks of his intentions. His eyes are so sensitive. I am unwilling. I find it impossible to attempt anything. On the wall there is an engraving of Nelson at Trafalgar. Nelson on deck, gazing down at us, gazing down at the comical mess. I must have tolerant consideration. Walter says I must not act impulsively. He says we shall certainly enjoy a spiritual life together. He makes a vague gesture at his books. I have an impression of desperation. Then he moves to me. He kisses me. We cuddle against each other. He talks of marriage again. I think of uncomfortable crowding in a bed meant for one. How ridiculous it is to be courted. The intoxication in his eyes. Then he kisses me again and this time he presses against my body. His arms enfold me. He makes a mumbled pleading. He falls to his knees. His face presses against my legs. He pulls at my dress. I stroke his hair. I smile. I tell him I want to sit down. I must sit down. He crawls after me as I find a chair. On his knees. He rubs my thighs. I pull at my gown to expose my legs. He rubs my legs. He rubs the brown silk of my stockings. He kisses my knees. Subtle kisses upon my knees. Then the kissing is more fervent. His fingers above my stockings. A sound in his throat as he kisses the bare flesh of my thighs. The first time. His lips brushing across my skin. How amusing it is. I feel the tickling of his lips. I pull my gown further. My garters exposed. My nest exposed. His nose twitches. His face is flushed. Does he have my scent? Or is it the scent of my perfume stick? His lips are upon me. His face pressed against my source. Kissing in the quick. His lips against my nest. His nose pushes into me. His tongue pushes into me. I raise one leg to make the copse more available. He forages. He drinks from my tap. How sweet it is. You lack modesty, darling. I gaze down upon his head. He strokes my thighs with his hands as he sucks at my flower. His mouth absorbed. His tongue. I spend easily. My clitoris rubbed by his nose. His lips. My spending upon his lips.