His hand was on her, caressingly. He endeavored to remove the significance of the gesture by patting her knee as one might pat the head of a little child, and whispering with an involved frankness:
"You're so nice, darling."
They had sat like this before, sometimes for an hour, whispering to each other. Their whispering would go on for a time, even their kisses. This time, however, she murmured unexpectedly:
"Don't, George."
He was surprised.
"Why not?"
"Because, we mustn't."
"But why?"
"Oh please ... don't!"
Her objection seemed to inspire him in a way her previous silences had failed to do. He grew indignant.