“Passionless, cold, serene,” she quoted. “I wonder if I am. I’ve never yet had the chance of finding out.”
But he made no reply. His silence, his lack of directness, the lazy contemptuous manner in which he smoked his cigarette, whipped her to anger.
“Let’s go back,” she said, abruptly.
“No,” he replied, with grimness. “I’ve got you here.”
“Very well,” she said; “then give me a cigarette.”
He threw her a case and a box of matches.
Then, suddenly, words came from him in a torrent.
“You confess you love me. Well, if you do—passion’s what I want. Affection’s nothing to me. You’ve ‘never yet had a chance of finding out.’ Do you expect me to believe that? You were made to tempt men ... and to satisfy them. Listen, Katya: I love every bit of you. You’re not cold. You could kiss, I know. Let me row you back.”
His cigarette gave a little hiss as it hit the water. He threw his arms forward, desperately.
“Yes, let me row you back,” he repeated.