The feebleness of that made him ashamed, but he drew closer to her and took her hand. She kept her head averted, but she made no objection.
“That’s what she expects,” he thought bitterly. “She expects me to make love to her. All right!”
So he put his arm about her shoulders, and made up his mind to say to her the things he had said to other girls; and because he was young, and she was very pretty, some of his bitterness vanished.
“You’re the sweetest little thing!” he said. “The moment I saw you—”
She pulled away from him with a violence that astounded him.
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she cried. “It’s—horrible!”
“Sorry!” said Kirby stiffly, and withdrew to his corner; but the sound of a sob made him bend toward her, filled with a reluctant contrition. “Look here!” he continued. “I didn’t mean—”
“I just—bumped my head,” she said. “That’s all; but I’d rather go home now.”
“But we’ve just got here,” objected Kirby. “Better have some dinner first.”
He got out of the cab and held out his hand to her, but she jumped out unaided and walked to the foot of the steps. As he turned and saw her standing where the lights of the portico shone full upon her, a queer, reluctant tenderness swept over him. Her coat was a little too big for her. Her red hat was pushed back, showing more of her candid brow, and her dark hair was ruffled. She looked so weary and angry, and so young! Even if she was not what he wanted her to be, she was somehow dear to him.