She was anything but Solveig-like. If Courtland
caught a glimpse of the real Gila through it all he laid it to his own
clumsy way of handling the delicate mystery of a girl's shy nature. He
saw she was wrought up beyond her own control, and he was so far under
the illusion that he blamed himself only, and set himself to calm her.
He coaxed her to sit down again, put his strong hand on her quivering
one, marveling in tenderness at its smallness and softness. He talked to
her in quiet, soothing tones, grave and reassuring. He promised he would
talk no more about the Presence till she was ready to hear. He was
leaning toward her in his strength, his arm behind her, his hand on her
shoulder, with a sheltering, comforting touch when he told her this, as
one would treat a little child in trouble, and, suddenly, like the sun
flashing out from behind the clouds, she lifted up her teary face and
smiled, nestling toward him, her head falling down on his shoulder with
a sigh like a tired, satisfied child, her face lifted temptingly so
close, so very close to his.
It was then that he did the thing that bound him to what followed. He
stooped and laid his lips upon her warm little trembling ones and kissed
her. The thrill that shot through him was like the click of shackles
snapping shut about one's wrist; like the turning of the key in a
prison-house; the shooting of the bolt to one's dark cell. He held her
there and touched her soft hair with his finger-tips; touched her cool
little forehead with his lips; touched her warm, soft lips again and
felt the thrill; but something was the matter.
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