“I beg your pardon,” he entreated, following her; “it never occurred to me that it might be repulsive.”
He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old, vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he said his lingering good night.
“Will you go to the races again?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I’ve had enough of the races. I don’t want to lose all the money I’ve won, and I’ve got to work when the weather is bright, instead of—”
“Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?”
“No!”
“Day after?”
“No, no.”
“Oh, please don’t refuse me! I know something of such things. I might help you with a stray suggestion or two.”
“No. Good night. Why don’t you go after you have said good night? I don’t like you,” she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting to draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and sincerity, and she knew that he felt it.