He lifted his hands from her shoulders. Then—how it happened she never could understand—she, trying to draw back, was drawn forward—into his arms—had been kissed by him—was in a whirl of joy, of terror, of wonder, of disbelief in the reality of what was happening. She, who prided herself on never having allowed any man to be in the least familiar with her—she in the arms of this bucolic person whom she hardly knew. It was impossible—it was insane.
“Please let me go,” she said feebly. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me!”
He was holding her at arm’s length again—this powerful man, with the compelling eyes— If only he would not look at her so, she might recover herself. He was saying in the sweetest, tenderest voice she had ever heard:
“You—for me! It simply can’t be, Miss Clearwater.”
“Some woman will care for you—as I told you,” she said in a breathless way. “But not I. You told me once you wouldn’t have me.”
“But I didn’t know you then,” replied he. “Now—I’ve got to have you!”
She gave a cry of dismay. “Oh—don’t say that—please!” she pleaded. “I’m sure you don’t want me.”
“No, I don’t want you,” confessed he, frankly. “I don’t know what on earth I’m going to do with you. How can you break with your father and everybody and go tracking off into poverty with me?”
“As for that,” began she, “I’ve got something of my own, and——”
She stopped short in horror. What was she saying? Who was talking out of her mouth and with her voice? She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t mean it—I’m mad—crazy!” And she was in his arms, with him caressing her hair.