He sat silent for several seconds, closely watching her, seeking to read her downcast eyes. But she would not raise them. Her heart was beating very quickly, and her breath came and went like the breath of a frightened bird.
At last very gently he moved, drew her to him, put his arm about her.
"Are you afraid of me, Chris?"
She nestled to him with a little gesture that was curiously pathetic.
With her face securely hidden against him, she whispered, "Yes."
"My darling, why?" he said very tenderly.
"I don't know why," murmured Chris.
"Surely not because I love you?" he said.
She nodded against his shoulder. "You ought not to love me like that.
It's too much. I'm not good enough."
"My little girl," he said, "I am not worthy to hold your hand in mine."
His hand was on her hair, stroking, fondling, caressing. She nestled closer, without lifting her face.
"You don't know me in the least. I'm not a bit nice really. I get up to all sorts of pranks. I'm wild and flighty. Ask Aunt Philippa if you want to know."