It was a morocco case, with an elastic band round it. Beatrice stretched her hand towards it, but he arrested her movement.
'No, no,' he said, playfully, 'we can't have prying. Here are the pens.'
'But do let me look at the case, Wilfrid.'
He began to close the drawer. Beatrice laid her hand on it.
'My aunt gave it me, long ago,' Wilfrid said, as if to dismiss the subject. 'Mind! I shall trap your fingers.'
'I'm sure you won't do that. But I do want to see it. The smell of morocco is so delicious. Just one whiff of it.'
'Then you want to smell it, not to see it. If you're good, you shall before you go away.'
'No, but now!—Wilfrid!'
He was pretending to squeeze her fingers in the shutting of the drawer. She would not undo her grasp.
'Why mayn't I, Wilfrid?'