He was carried away by his own words, and, stooping his head, he kissed her hand again and again.
Every pulse in her body answered to his touch, and when she drew her hand away, it was with an effort that was more than physical.
“Ah! stop, stop,” she cried. “I’ve changed—I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t mean what?” demanded Hawkins, with his light eyes on fire.
“Oh, leave me alone,” she said, turning her distracted face towards him. “I’m nearly out of my mind as it is. What made you follow me out here? I came out so as I wouldn’t see you, and I’m going to meet Roddy now.”
Hawkins’ colour died slowly down to a patchy white.
“What do you think it was that made me follow you? Do you want to make me tell you over again what you know already?” She did not answer, and he went on, trying to fight against his own fears by speaking very quietly and rationally. “I don’t know what you’re at, Francie. I don’t believe you know what you’re saying. Something must have happened, and it would be fairer to tell me what it is, than to drive me distracted in this sort of way.”
There was a pause of several seconds, and he was framing a fresh remonstrance when she spoke.
“Roddy’s in great trouble. I wouldn’t leave him,” she said, taking refuge in a prevarication of the exact truth.
Something about her told Hawkins that things were likely to go hard with him, and there was something, too, that melted his anger as it rose; but her pale face drew him to a height of passion that he had not known before.