Her pretty appeal was fatal to her desire. It enhanced her graces. In both phrase and tone it was different from similar request in the petulant mouths of those ladies amongst whom Bob purchased his way. Dissatisfied, they would have said “Oh, chuck it! Do!” But “Mr. Chater, please leave me alone!”—that had the effect of moving Mr. Chater a degree closer along the seat.
He said: “You shan't have cause to blame me. Look here, you haven't asked me to explain my conduct on Friday.”
“I don't wish you to.”
“Don't you want to know?”
She shook her head.
“Aren't you curious?” His voice was low with a note of intensity. This was love-making, as he knew the pursuit.
He went on: “I'm sure you're curious. Look here, I'm going to tell you.”
“I'm going,” she said; made to rise.
He caught her hand where it lay on her lap; pressed her down. “You're not. If you do I shall follow—but I won't let you,” and he pressed again in advertisement.
Now she was alarmed—not for the result of this interview, but for its very present perils. Fear strangled her voice, but she said, “Let me go.”