Alvina watched him with large eyes. And again he came very near to her, so that his blue-serge waistcoat seemed, to impinge on her, and his purplish red face was above her.
“I’d rather not be engaged, under the circumstances,” she said.
“Why?” came the nasty monosyllable. “What have the circumstances got to do with it?”
“Everything is so uncertain,” she said. “I’d rather wait.”
“Wait! Haven’t you waited long enough? There’s nothing at all to prevent your getting engaged to me now. Nothing whatsoever! Come now. I’m old enough not to be played with. And I’m much too much in love with you to let you go on indefinitely like this. Come now!” He smiled imminent, and held out his large hand for her hand. “Let me put the ring on your finger. It will be the proudest day of my life when I make you my wife. Give me your hand—”
Alvina was wavering. For one thing, mere curiosity made her want to see the ring. She half lifted her hand. And but for the knowledge that he would kiss her, she would have given it. But he would kiss her—and against that she obstinately set her will. She put her hand behind her back, and looked obstinately into his eyes.
“Don’t play a game with me,” he said dangerously.
But she only continued to look mockingly and obstinately into his eyes.
“Come,” he said, beckoning for her to give her hand.
With a barely perceptible shake of the head, she refused, staring at him all the time. His ungovernable temper got the better of him. He saw red, and without knowing, seized her by the shoulder, swung her back, and thrust her, pressed her against the wall as if he would push her through it. His face was blind with anger, like a hot, red sun. Suddenly, almost instantaneously, he came to himself again and drew back his hands, shaking his right hand as if some rat had bitten it.