Still smiling, in that friendly, assured way, he went on: "You've been very cold and reserved with me, my dear. Very unappreciative."
Mildred, red and trembling, hung her head in confusion.
"I've been at the business ten years," he went on, "and you're the first woman I've been more than casually interested in. The pretty ones were bores. The homely ones—I can't interest myself in a homely woman, no matter how much talent she has. A woman must first of all satisfy the eye. And you—" He seated himself and drew her toward him. She, cold all over and confused in mind and almost stupefied, resisted with all her strength; but her strength seemed to be oozing away. She said:
"You must not do this. You must not do this. I'm horribly disappointed in you."
He drew her to his lap and held her there without any apparent tax upon his strength. He kissed her, laughingly pushing away the arms with which she tried to shield her face. Suddenly she found strength to wrench herself free and stood at a distance from him. She was panting a little, was pale, was looking at him with cold anger.
"You will please leave this room," said she.
He lit a cigarette, crossed his legs comfortably, and looked at her with laughing eyes. "Don't do that," he said genially. "Surely my lessons in acting haven't been in vain. That's too obviously a pose."
She went to the mirror, arranged her hat, and moved toward the door. He rose and barred the way.
"You are as sensible as you are sweet and lovely," said he. "Why should you insist on our being bad friends?"
"If you don't stand aside, I'll call out to the watchman."