The Collector by John Fowles

gramophone, it was soft music, and she looked beautiful. She was so changed, her eyes seemed alive, and what with the French scent she had that filled the room and the sherry and the heat from the fire, real logs, I managed to forget what I had to do later. I even said some silly jokes. Anyway she laughed.
    Well, she had a second glass and then we went through to the other room where I’d slipped my present in her place, which she saw at once.
    “For me?”
    Look and see, I said. She took off the paper and there was this dark blue leather case and she pressed the button and she just didn’t say anything. She just stared at them.
    “Are they real?” She was awed, really awed.
    Of course. They’re only little stones, but they’re high quality.
    “They’re fantastic,” she said. Then she held out the box to me. “I can’t take them. I understand, I think I understand why you’ve given them to me, and I appreciate it very much, but… I can’t take them.”
    I want you to, I said.
    “But… Ferdinand, if a young man gives a girl a present like this, it can only mean one thing.”
    What, I asked.
    “Other people have nasty minds.”
    I want you to have them. Please.
    “I’ll wear them for now. I’ll pretend they’re mine.”
    They are yours, I said.
    She came round the table with the case.
    “Put them on,” she said. “If you give a girl jewellery, you must put it on yourself.”
    She stood there and watched me, right up close to me, then she turned as I picked up the stones and put them round her neck. I had a job fastening them, my hands were trembling, it was the first time I had touched her skin except her hand. She smelt so nice I could have stood like that all the evening. It was like being in one of those adverts come to life. At last she turned and there she was looking at me.
    “Are they nice?” I nodded, I couldn’t speak. I wanted to say something nice, a compliment.
    “Would you like me to kiss you on the cheek?”
    I didn’t say, but she put her hand on my shoulder and lifted up a bit and kissed my cheek. It must have seemed hot, I was red enough by that time to have started a bonfire.
    Well, we had cold chicken and things; I opened the champagne and it was very nice, I was surprised. I wished I’d bought another bottle, it seemed easy to drink, not very intoxicating. Though we laughed a lot, she was really witty, talking with other people that weren’t there again and so on.
    After supper we made coffee together in the kitchen (I kept a sharp eye open, of course) and took it through to the lounge and she put on jazz records I’d bought her. We actually sat on the sofa together.
    Then we played charades; she acted things, syllables of words, and I had to guess what they were. I wasn’t any good at it, either acting or guessing. I remember one word she did was “butterfly.” She kept on doing it again and again and I couldn’t guess. I said aeroplane and all the birds I could think of and in the end she collapsed in a chair and said I was hopeless. Then it was dancing. She tried to teach me to jive and samba, but it meant touching her, I got so confused and I never got the time right. She must have thought I was really slow.
    The next thing was she had to go away a minute. I didn’t like it, but I knew I couldn’t expect her to go downstairs. I had to let her go up and I stood on the stairs where I could see if she did any monkey business with the light (the planks weren’t up, I slipped there). The window was high, I knew she couldn’t get out without my hearing, and it was quite a drop. Anyhow she came right out, seeing me on the stairs.
    “Can’t you trust me?” She was a bit sharp.
    I said, yes, it’s not that.
    We went back into the lounge.
    “What is it, then?”
    If you escaped now, you could still say I imprisoned you. But if I take you home, I can say I released you. I know it’s silly, I said. Of course I was acting it a bit. It was a very difficult