He tried again to kiss her, but she wrenched at her hands, held in his grip.
“Let me go. You… you… to talk of love. You don’t know what it is. Let me go… let me go—”
“I won’t. By God, you shan’t speak to me like that. I won’t endure it.”
He was evidently losing control of himself a little, and the sight of it steadied her. Behind all her bravado and pluck there was a terrible ache. Caught in a mesh of circumstances, she knew she could not struggle out without being grievously hurt at heart. She knew that, however she loathed his action now, she could not unlove him all in a moment.
When he scorched and seared her with his passionate declaration, her heart cried out that she wanted him to love her, that she wanted to be his. And yet stronger and higher and better than all, was that woman’s instinct in her soul which loathed his action and clung wildly in the stress of the moment to its own best ideal.
In the swift sense of hopelessness that followed, great tears gathered in her eyes, and welled over onto her cheeks. They had an immediate effect upon him. He let go her hands.
“Don’t cry, Hal, don’t cry,” he said a little huskily.
“I can’t stand that.”
She brushed the tears away almost angrily, but, ignoring his motion to draw up an arm chair, remained standing, straight and slim beside the hearth, trying to recover her composure.
Sir Edwin commenced to pace the room. He had succeeded in his scheme so far as to get Hal to the flat to discuss the projects in his mind, but now that she was there he felt at a loss to proceed. He wished she would sit down; he changed his mind and almost wished she would cry; standing there, like a soldier on guard, with that direct, fearless expression, she disconcerted him, by making him feel mean and paltry and small.