He moved close to her. He was rather pale, but by no means discomposed.
"Yes?" he said. "Go on, please. I want you to finish."
There was authority in his voice, but Molly sat in unbroken silence.
He waited for several moments, then laid a perfectly steady hand on her knee.
"You have been wondering—" he said.
She did not raise her head. As if under compulsion, she answered him with her face still hidden.
"I have dared to wonder if—perhaps—you would take me—instead. I—am not in love with anybody else, and I never would be. If you are in love with Phyllis, I won't go on. But if it is just beauty you care for, I am no worse-looking than she is. And I should do my best to please you."
The low voice sank. Molly's habitual self-possession had wholly deserted her at this critical moment. She was painfully conscious of the quiet hand on her knee. It seemed to press upon her with a weight that was almost intolerable.
The silence that followed was terrible to her. She wondered afterwards how she sat through it.
Then at last he moved and took her by the wrists. "Will you look at me?" he said.