‘Why? Why? Don’t you want to? Won’t you—don’t you want to?’
‘Wouldn’t say that,’ said Sally, shifting in her chair, and struggling to find the polite words. ‘Wouldn’t exactly say as ’ow I don’t want to.’
‘Then you—you’ll let me take you out? You’ll let me take you somewhere to tea? You’ll let me fetch you in the car—you’ll let me, won’t you? To-morrow?’ asked Jocelyn, leaning further across the table, his arms stretched along it towards her, reaching out to her in entreaty.
‘Father——’
‘But he says I may. It’s with his permission——’
‘Tea too?’ asked Sally, more and more astonished. ‘It ain’t much like ’im,’ she said, full of doubts.
Whereupon Jocelyn got up impetuously, and came round to her with the intention of flinging himself at her feet, and on his knees beseeching her to come out with him—he who in his life had never been on his knees to anybody.
‘Oh, Salvatia!’ he cried, coming round to her, holding out both his hands.
She hastily pushed back her chair and slipped out of it beyond his reach, sure this wasn’t proper. No gentleman had a right to call a girl by her Christian name without permission asked and granted; on that point she was quite clear. Salvatia, indeed. The gentle creature couldn’t but be affronted and hurt by this.