She drew back sharply. It was impossible to conceal her distress all in a moment. She moved aside, battling with herself.
He came close to her. "Violet!" he said.
"Don't!" she said, in a choked whisper.
He slipped an arm about her, gently overcoming her resistance. "I say—what's the matter? What's troubling you?"
He had never held her so before. Always till that moment she had maintained a delicate reserve in his presence, a barrier which he had never managed to overcome. He had even wondered sometimes if she were afraid of him. But now in her hour of weakness she suffered him, albeit under protest.
"Oh, go away!" she whispered. "Please—you must!"
But Wentworth had no thought of yielding his advantage. He pressed her to him.
"Violet, I say! You're miserable! I knew you were the first moment I saw you. And I can't stand it. You must let me help. Don't anyhow try to keep me outside!"
"You can't help," she murmured, with her face averted. "At least—only by going away."
But he held her still. "That's rot, you know. I'm not going. What is it? Tell me! Is he a brute to you?"