He took his arm away from Maggie's waist, and edged a little away from
her. He felt angry and humiliated. He told himself that he did not care
who saw him putting his arm about Maggie's waist, but was aware that
this was not true, that he deeply resented being overlooked in his
love-making. He did not wish anyone to behold him in this intimate
relationship with Maggie, and he was full of fury against the woman
behind him because she had seen him fondling her. For of course the
woman knew that he had his arm about Maggie ... and now her neighbours
would know, too. The whole theatre would know that he had been
embracing the girl!... Well, what if they did know? Let them know!
There was no harm in a fellow putting his arm round a girl's waist. It
was a natural thing for a fellow to do, particularly if the girl were
so pretty and warm and loving as Maggie Carmichael. The woman herself
had no doubt had a man's arm round her waist once upon a time. He did
not care who knew!... All the same!... No, he did not care!... He
slipped his hand into Maggie's hand again, and then quickly withdrew
it. She was holding a sticky chocolate in her fingers!...
He lost all interest in the play now. It would be truer, perhaps, to
say that he had not begun to be interested in it, and now that he tried
to follow it, he could not do so. His mind constantly reverted to the
indignant woman behind him. He imagined her looking, first this way and
then that, in her efforts to see the stage, getting angrier and more
angry as she was thwarted in her desire, and then, in her final
indignation, leaning forward to tap on his shoulder and beg him to keep
his head apart from Maggie's so that she might conveniently see the
stage. His sense of violated privacy became stronger. His love for
Maggie, for he accepted it now as a settled fact, was not a thing for
prying eyes to witness: it was a secret, intimate thing in which she
and he alone were concerned. He hated the thought that anyone else in
the theatre should know that Maggie and he were sweethearts, newly in
love and warm with the glow of their first affection. And then, when he
had slipped his hand back into hers, he had encountered a sticky
chocolate! While he was burning with feeling for her and with
resentment against the old woman's intrusion into their love affair,
Maggie had been chewing chocolate quite unconcernedly. In that crisis
of their love, she had remained unmoved. When he had released her hand,
she had simply put it into the box of chocolates and taken out a sticky
sweet and had eaten it with as little emotion as if he had not been
present at all, as if his ardent, pressing arm had not been suddenly
withdrawn from her waist because of that angry intruder into their
happiness. She had taken his hand when he gave it to her, and had
released it again when he withdrew it, without any appearance of desire
or reluctance. He had imagined that she would take his hand eagerly and
yield it up unwillingly, that she would try to restrain him when he
endeavoured to take his hand away from hers ... but she had not done
so.
Perhaps she did not love him as he loved her. Perhaps she did not love
him at all. After all, he had met her for the first time about three
hours earlier in the evening. Only three hours ago! It was hard to
believe that he had not loved her for centuries, had not often felt her
heart beating beneath the pressure of his hand, had not frequently put
his lips to her lips and been enchanted by her kisses. Why, he had only
kissed her once. Only once! Once only!... He looked at her as she sat
by his side, gazing intently at the stage. He could see a protuberance
in her cheek, made by a piece of chocolate, and as he looked at her, it
seemed to him to be a terrible thing that this girl did not love him.
His love had gone out to her, quickly, insurgently and fully, and
perhaps she thought no more of him than she might think of any chance
friend who offered to take her to see a play. She might have spent many
evenings in this very theatre with other men. Had she not told him that
afternoon that she hated to be alone! He had put his arm about her
waist in a public place and had been humiliated for doing so, but
nothing of this had meant much to Maggie. She was quite willing to let
him embrace her ... perhaps she thought that she ought to allow him to
hug her as a return for the treat at the theatre ... or perhaps she
liked to feel a man's arm about her waist and did not much care who the
man might be. Some girls were like that. Willie Logan had told him that
Carrie Furlong was the girl of any fellow who liked to walk up the road
with her. She did not care with whom she went; all that she cared about
was that she should have some boy in her company. She would kiss
anybody.
Was Maggie Carmichael like that? Would she kiss this one or that one,
just as the mood took her?... Oh, no, she could not be like that. It
was impossible for him to fall in love with a girl who distributed
kisses as carelessly and impassionately as a boy distributes handbills.
He felt certain that he could not fall in love with a girl of that
sort, that some instinct in him would prevent him from going so. Other
fellows might make a mistake of that kind ... Willie Logan, for
example ... but a MacDermott could not make one. Maggie must be in love
with him ... she must have fallen in love with him as suddenly as he had
fallen in love with her ... otherwise she could not have consented so
readily to accompany him to the theatre. When he had taken her in his
arms and kissed her, she had yielded to him so naturally, as if she had
been in his arms many times before!... Perhaps, though, the ease with
which she had yielded to him denoted that she had had much
experience!... Oh, no, no! No, no! She was his girl, not anybody else's
girl. He could not have her for a sweetheart, if she shared her love
with other men. He must have her entirely to himself!...
Oh, what a torturing, doubt-raising, perplexing thing this Love was! A
few hours ago he had known nothing whatever of it ... had merely
imagined cold, austere, wrong things about it ... and now it had hold
of him and was hurting him. Every particle of his mind was concentrated
on this girl by his side ... a stranger to him. He knew nothing of her
except her name and that she was employed as a waitress in a
restaurant. She was a stranger to him ... and yet a fierce,
unquenchable love for her was raging in his heart. Each moment, the
flames of his passion increased in strength. When he looked away from
her, he could see her in his mind's eye. Each of the players on the
stage looked like Maggie.... And there she was, all unaware of this
strong emotion in him, placidly sitting in her seat, gazing at the
actors! Do women feel love as strongly as men do? he asked himself as
he looked at her, and as he did so she turned, her head to him,
conscious perhaps of his stare, and when her eyes met his in the
glowing dusk of the theatre, she smiled, and, seeing her smile, he
forgot his doubt and remembered only the great joy of loving her.