"Am I hurting you?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Essie, hold, hold!"
Next she said: "Are you slipping?"
He said: "Some one will come. Some one will come. I heard a shout. Hold! Hold!"
She persisted: "Are you slipping?"
He said: "Yes. I'm slipping. Hold! Hold!"
There isn't any need to describe anything—of his gradual slipping by her drag upon him, of his useless hands enviced in hers, of her very terrible clutch upon them.
She presently said: "Tell me that what you said on the seat that night, dear."
He knew. He cried most passionately: "I love you, Essie."
"Truly?"