“But—” she began. “I—I’d like you to, only—I think you’d better not, please.” Then, as he was silent, she added, in distress: “I’m sorry—really I am,” and held out her hand.
He took it. He might have known, by the clasp of that warm and sturdy little hand, that this was no goddess Diana whose feet were on the hilltops; but he would not know it. His heart beat fast, and his fingers tightened on hers.
“You’ll let me see you again?” he said.
“Oh, yes!” she replied. “Yes, of course! Some other evening—but I’ve got to go now. Good night!”
She tried to draw her hand away, but he held it fast.
“Look here!” he said. “You can’t go like this! I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Emmy—Emmy Richards,” she told him.
“Mine’s Alan Kirby. You’ll let me come to see you?”
“Well, you see,” she said, “I can’t very well. I’m just visiting here.”
“Then meet me somewhere.”