But he came after her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Please!” he said. “Why won’t you?”
The touch of his hand filled her with a great anger. She turned her head and looked at him with scornful amazement—and found in his face only laughter and cajolery.
“Please!” he said again. “Just one dance!”
“No!” she said.
He could not very well misunderstand—or pretend to misunderstand—her tone. He dropped his hand and stood back.
“Sorry!” he said.
She knew that he wasn’t sorry. She went past him, threading her way among the dancing couples, and went upstairs to her own room. She locked the door and stood leaning against it, in the dark, breathing a little fast from her haste and anger.
She hated him! Vivid before her was the image of his handsome face, flushed with drinking, and of his conqueror’s smile. Intolerable was the memory of his hand upon her shoulder. She hated him, and she could almost hate herself because even for a minute she had thought he was different.
IV