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62 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
posed that we should accompany " the dear child ’"
home.
At the front door he offered her his arm, and then turned
to me.
"Look after my wife, old man," he said, "and prove
to her that you really are the perfect cavalier I know
you to be.’’ His voice was full of tender solicitude.
I felt ill at ease. As the evening was Avarm the
Baroness, leaning lightly on me, was carrying her scarf
in her hand, and from her arm, the graceful outline of
which was plainly perceptible through the thin silk,
emanated a magnetic current which excited in me an
extraordinary sensitiveness. I imagined that I could
detect, at the height of my deltoid muscle, the exact spot
where the sleeve of her under-garment ended. My sensi-
tiveness was intensified to such a degree that I could have
traced the whole anatomy of that adorable arm. Her
biceps, the great elevator which plays the principal part
when two people embrace each other, pressed mine, flesh
against flesh, in supple rhythms. In walking along, side
by side, I could distinguish the curve of her hips through
the skirts which brushed against my legs.
"You walk splendidly, you must be a perfect dancer,"
she said, as if to encourage me to break an embarrassing
silence.
And after a few moments, during which she must have
felt the quivering of my overstrung nerves, she asked, a
little sarcastically, with the superiority of a woman of the
world
—
"Are you shivering?
"
"Yes, I’m cold."
"Then why not put on your overcoat? "
Her voice was soft and velvety, like a caress.
I put on my coat, a veritable straight jacket, and so
was better protected against the warmth which flowed
from her body into mine.
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