She was clasping and unclasping her hands. It was to be a battle of wills. His rough speech revealed this to her. And she was ill-equipped for the conflict. His dominant personality seemed to deprive her of even the desire to fight. She remembered, with a sudden, burning flush, that she had clung to him only a little while before in her extremity of loneliness. Doubtless he remembered it too.
Yet she braced herself for the struggle. He could not, after all, compel her to accept his generosity.
"I am sorry," she said; "I am very sorry. But, you know, there is another way in which you can help me."
"What is that?" said Mercer.
"If you could tell me of some respectable lodging," she said. "I have enough for one night if the charges are moderate. And even after that—if Robin doesn't come—I have one or two little things I might sell. He is sure to come soon."
"And if he doesn't?" said Mercer.
Her fingers gripped each other.
"I am sure he will," she said.
"And if he doesn't?" said Mercer again.
His persistence became suddenly intolerable. She turned on him with something like anger—the anger of desperation.