"Please what?" he rather mimicked, advancing the exact distance of her withdrawal, the smile out on his never quite dry lips.
"Please—don't."
The corpulency which was one day to envelop him like suet was already giving him the appearance of ten years his senior. He had upon occasion been mistaken for the father of his younger brother, and some of Lilly's acute distaste for him, across the slight enough chasm of the seven or eight years between them, was already that of youth for lascivious age.
"Shall I take those letters now—Mr. Visigoth?"
"I would rather take you—to dinner."
"I might have known," she said, rather tiredly.
"What?"
"That you would not keep your word."
"I have though, for eight weeks."
"I thought your promise meant—"