“It must be a satisfaction to you,” she said, with ill-concealed irony.
“You have—er—style and beauty,” he said. “Valuable attributes.... Be a credit to any man.”
“You came to talk business, did you not?”
“Not exactly.... Not precisely.”
“Will you tell me why you have come,” she said, sharply.
“Certainly. Certainly. Arriving at the point.”
“Please do so. I am tired.”
He paused briefly while his small, sharp eyes traveled over her person with an estimating glance, a glance which heated her resentment. It was an unpleasant glance for a young woman to undergo.
“Ahem!... Present your case. Inventory, so to speak. You own a bankrupt country paper. Never paid—never will. Alone in the world. No relatives. Nobody to help you. No money. Hard future to face.... Debit side of the ledger. Um!... Credit side shows youth—er—intelligence, education. All valuable assets. Shows also beauty and—er—the ability to look like a lady.... Breeding. Difficult to find. Desirable.” He paused again until he appraised her with greedy eyes.
Suddenly she felt apprehensive. A sense of outrage swept over her, but for once words failed in the emergency. She felt her limbs tremble. The man’s eyes were an outrage; his manner was an affront. She was angry as she had never been angry before; terrified with a new sort of crawling, skin-chilling terror. She was aware of being afraid he might touch her; that his fat, pudgy, well-kept fingers might reach out and rest upon her hand or her cheek or her hair. If they should, she knew she would scream. His touch would be intolerable. She had a feeling it would leave a damp, ineradicable mark. She drew back in her chair, crouching, quivering.