“No—no thanks. I am not a bit hungry. And—I am so sorry—I can only stay with you a little while.”
“Why?” he asked; “stay all night with me—do!” he urged.
“I am so very sorry,” she replied, “but it’s impossible. I must be home by midnight.”
“Very well,” said he, patting the little hand that rested on his arm, “it shall be as you wish. But I’m terribly disappointed. Perhaps some other night?”
“No—indeed,” she said, “I must always be home at midnight, and later on it may be that I shall not be able to come out at all in the evenings.... Do not be angry with me!”
“I am not angry: I am only sorry. Do not distress yourself, my dear. You are very good and honest not to try to deceive me. Here we are: this is my house.”
He opened a massive iron gate that gave on to a garden of trees. A broad pathway led to a detached house some distance from the road. He could feel that she was trembling a little.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, “I shall treat you kindly.”
He took her hand in his and pressed it gently.
“I am not afraid of you,” she said; “I am just a bit afraid of what I am doing.”