[She is both embarrassed and privately delighted by his assurance, taking a sort of pleasure in how he speaks with such utter sincerity, as if every word he says is more than the truth, but law. All of her lingering hesitation cannot doubt how plainly he states his beliefs, even if in a slightly unrefined manner—and she knows, by the honest ring in his voice, that he is tempting her for more than just his own sake.
The whiteness of her face, blotched pink and shining wet from her silent crying, dips slightly at his invitation, considering it for a long moment. Literally, he is offering nothing more than another place to go, where they can steal away for an hour or two, and kiss like proper lovers. Literally, that is all he is suggesting. But the undertone to his words is plain as day, even to her delicate sensibilities. Is it very possible, to make love without being in love—? Of course not, or so says the romance novels and radio serials, and so she would like to believe. But then, wouldn't that mean that Tom falls in love at least once an hour, from how many beguiling glances he has made at dancers and bell-girls and waitresses of all sorts?
Not that he is necessarily asking for any kind of physicality—at least, nothing beyond a kiss or two. Her imagination is simply running away with her, spurred on by the sudden engagement between the two of them. A kiss in somewhere private is not criminal, she justifies—at the very least, she takes comfort in knowing Tom was the first hypocrite, who first broke their wedding vows, and then broke her fractured heart. Her gaze drifts upwards, as if upstairs, her husband was listening to their conversation at that very minute. He would never know: he would be preoccupied with his sports-talk for at least until the end of the evening. She would be gone and return before she was ever missed—if he ever missed her at all.
Just for an hour or two.]
A—all right. Just a short little arrangement.
[There is a hitch in her voice, reaching for a cloth napkin to wipe at her cheeks. It's not going to be the sort of ghastly, loveless union one would read about in the "primitive" tabloids—his intentions for her are pure, and noble, and honest and above all, loving. She has herself half-convinced of that—but only by half.]
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The whiteness of her face, blotched pink and shining wet from her silent crying, dips slightly at his invitation, considering it for a long moment. Literally, he is offering nothing more than another place to go, where they can steal away for an hour or two, and kiss like proper lovers. Literally, that is all he is suggesting. But the undertone to his words is plain as day, even to her delicate sensibilities. Is it very possible, to make love without being in love—? Of course not, or so says the romance novels and radio serials, and so she would like to believe. But then, wouldn't that mean that Tom falls in love at least once an hour, from how many beguiling glances he has made at dancers and bell-girls and waitresses of all sorts?
Not that he is necessarily asking for any kind of physicality—at least, nothing beyond a kiss or two. Her imagination is simply running away with her, spurred on by the sudden engagement between the two of them. A kiss in somewhere private is not criminal, she justifies—at the very least, she takes comfort in knowing Tom was the first hypocrite, who first broke their wedding vows, and then broke her fractured heart. Her gaze drifts upwards, as if upstairs, her husband was listening to their conversation at that very minute. He would never know: he would be preoccupied with his sports-talk for at least until the end of the evening. She would be gone and return before she was ever missed—if he ever missed her at all.
Just for an hour or two.]
A—all right. Just a short little arrangement.
[There is a hitch in her voice, reaching for a cloth napkin to wipe at her cheeks. It's not going to be the sort of ghastly, loveless union one would read about in the "primitive" tabloids—his intentions for her are pure, and noble, and honest and above all, loving. She has herself half-convinced of that—but only by half.]