She fell back; was cornered between the hearth and a low table.
Bob dropped into the chair; boldly regarded her; his eyes as expressive of his slap-dash intentions as he could make them: “Look here, I want you to enjoy yourself for once. I'm going to take you to a music-hall or somewhere.”
He stretched a foot; touched her.
She drew back close against the mantelpiece, her agitation very evident.
“Well, don't that please you?”
“You know it is impossible.”
Bob paid no regard. This was that same diffidence with which the chap near Wimbledon had had to contend.
“We'll come out of the show early and have a bit of supper and be back before half-past eleven. Who's to know? Now, then?”
“It's very kind of you. I know you mean it kindly—”
“Of course I do—”