“Do you think I could let any other man touch me?” demanded she.
There was a delightfully ferocious jealousy in the sudden tightening of the arm about her waist. He said:
“I guess we’re in for it, Ellen.”
Her arm went round his shoulders. Said she laughingly: “Women aren’t so very hard to understand—are they?”
He eyed her shrewdly. “Not when they’re willing to be understood.... You are sure you want to wait?”
“I’m sure I’ve got to,” replied she, simply.
He suddenly stood up, drawing away from her. She was in a tremor of alarm—which was not decreased by his resolute expression, until he said:
“I must get to work. I’ve got to hurry things. You understand, you’re entirely free until I’m able to come for you?”
“If it helps you to think so,” she answered. “But—I’m not that kind of girl, George.”
A look of tenderness flooded her and he said: “I didn’t mean that. Of course you aren’t. You’re—mine.”