He was now so keen, like a dog with its nose to the scent, that he forgot her recent refusal and hooked his hand inside her arm. This time she did not draw away and they walked on, close-linked, alone in the moonlit street. Conscious of her reticences, ashamed of her lack of candor, and yet afraid to make damaging revelations, she said defensively:
"I've told you as much as I want to tell."
He seized on that, in his eagerness pressing her arm against his side, bending over her like a lover.
"Yes, but not all. And why not all? Why should you keep anything from me?"
"But why should I tell you?" she asked, her loitering step coming to a stop.
As the situation stood the question was a poser. He did not want to be her lover, had never intended it; his easy gallantry had meant nothing. But now, seeing her averted face, the eyes down-drooped, he could think of no reply that was not love-making. She stole a swift look at him, recognized his hesitation, and felt a stab, for it was the love-making answer she had expected. The mortified anger of the woman who has made a bid for tenderness and seen herself mistaken surged up in her.
She jerked her arm violently out of his grasp and walked forward at a swinging pace.
"What's the matter?" he said, chasing at her heels. "Are you angry?"
"I shouldn't wonder," she threw over her shoulder. "Being nagged at for fun doesn't appeal to me."
"But what do you mean?—I'm all at sea."