"Really?" He flushed.
Yes, she had enchanted and entranced him. She had only to smile and to use a particular tone, soft and breaking.... She knew that.
"But you do alter my notions," she continued, and her clear voice was poured out like a liquid. "I don't know how it is..." She stopped. And then, in half-playful accents: "So this is your little office!"
Her hand was on the knob of the open door of the cubicle, a black erection within the shop, where Edwin and his father kept the accounts and wrote letters.
"Yes. Go in and have a look at it."
She murmured kindly: "Shall I?" and went in. He followed.
For a moment, she was extremely afraid, and she whispered, scared: "I must hurry off now."
He ignored this remark.
"Shall you be at Brighton long?" he demanded. And he was so friendly and simple and timorous and honest-eyed, and his features had such an extraordinary anxious expression that her own fear seemed to leave her. She thought, as if surprised by the discovery: "He is a good friend."
"Oh, I can't tell," she answered him. "It depends."