"Mildred!" he cried. "Say that you love me a little! I'm so lonely for you—so hungry for you!"
She grew cold with fear and with repulsion. She neither yielded to his embrace nor shook it off. She simply stood, her round smooth body hard though corsetless. He kissed her on the throat, kissed the lace over her bosom, crying out inarticulately. In the frenzy of his passion he did not for a while realize her lack of response. As he felt it, his arms relaxed, dropped away from her, fell at his side. He hung his head. He was breathing so heavily that she glanced into the house apprehensively, fearing someone else might hear.
"I beg pardon," he muttered. "You were too much for me this morning. It was your fault. You are maddening!"
She moved on into the house.
"Wait a minute!" he called after her.
She halted, hesitating.
"Come back," he said. "I've got something to say to you."
She turned and went back to the veranda, he retreating before her and his eyes sinking before the cold, clear blue of hers.
"You're going up, not to come down again," he said. "You think I've insulted you—think I've acted outrageously."
How glad she was that he had so misread her thoughts—had not discovered the fear, the weakness, the sudden collapse of all her boasted confidence in her strength of character.