If he had been Irish, he would have said that he
destroyed himself, for she was so unexpectedly warm and silken and
lithe that she became instantly something other than the Charity
he had adored as a sad, sweet deity.
He realized that she was terribly a woman.
They were no longer boy and girl out on a gay little lark. They were
a man unhappily married and a woman unhappily unmarried, setting
forth on a wild steed for a wild ride through the reluctant autumn
air. The neighboring sea gave out the stored-up warmth of summer,
and the moon with the tilted face of a haloed nun yearned over them.
When Jim helped Charity into the car her arm seemed to burn in his
palm. He hesitated a moment, and a thought fluttered through his
mind that he ought not to hazard the adventure. But another thought
chased it away, a thought of the idiocy of being afraid, and another
thought of how impossible it was to ask her to get out and go back.
He found the coat, a heavy, short coat, and held it for her, saw
her ensconced comfortably, stepped in and closed the door softly.
The car went forward as smoothly as a skiff on a swift, smooth
water.
Charity was not so solemn as Jim. She was excited and flattered by
such an unforeseen diversion breaking in on her doleful solitude.
"It's been so long since a man asked me to go buggy-riding,"
she said, "that I've forgotten how to behave. I'm getting to be
a regular old maid, Jim."
"Huh!" was all that Jim could think of.
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