“Mr. Ryan!” It was hardly more than a breath of protest, but it was as stirring to the man as the whisper of love.
He made no comment on it, and she said, with a little more of insistence and volume,
“But why?”
“It’s best not,” he answered, and turned toward her.
His shoulders were squared and he held his head as a man does who prepares himself for a blow. His eyes, looking straight into hers, enveloped her in a glance soft and burning, not a savage glance, but the enfolding, possessive glance, caressing and ardent, pleading and masterful, of a lover.
The books that she was holding fell to the table, and they looked at each other while the clock ticked.
“It’s best for me not to come,” he said huskily, “never to come.”
“Very well,” she faltered.
He came a little nearer to her and said,
“You know what I mean.”