“Trust you? Why should I trust you?”
A moment her blue eyes blazed into his. He was feeling quite scorched by her scorn. Probably he looked wilted. At any rate, her next move amazed as much as it refreshed him.
One of her ungloved, ringless hands slipped into his that lay idle on the leather of the seat; the fingers curled around it.
“I’d like to trust you. I don’t mind admitting that.” She turned so directly toward him that again he felt her clover-field breath across his cheek. “But you’ll have to excuse me for the present. I just don’t dare.”
He held her hand hard, pulsant palm to pulsant palm. But he took his eyes off the temptation of her face; a second or so stared straight ahead, trying to resist—trying to answer for himself the question of her.
Who and what was she—this woman of his first, deliberate self-selection?
“Trust—is a thing—some people have to—be taught,” he said, steadily as he could. “You will trust me—in time. There is only one—quick way—to learn.”
Having gone that far, he gave up; realized that he couldn’t resist. His eyes swept back to the temptation of her face. His two arms swept around the temptation of her form. His face swept down until he yielded, in a serious kiss, to the temptation of her lips.
“Learn, Jane. Learn,” he insisted into the panic of emotion he felt her to be in. “Your distrust has made it hard for me to trust you. But I find I do. I trust you with my soul. Don’t say the angry things you might. Wait. Learn.”
At her first effort to be free, he released her; leaned to his window; knew without turning that she was leaning to hers. After they had swung into the wide avenue that bounds the park on the west, he spoke quietly.