Maggie certainly had no intention of letting any such thing come to pass; but she could not check her innocent-toned baiting.
“How do I know what he'll make me do? He's clever and handsome, you know.”
Barney gripped her shoulder fiercely. “Maggie—are you falling in love with him?”
“How do I know, when—”
“Maggie!” He gripped her more tightly, and his phrases tumbled out fiercely, rapidly. “You're not going to do anything of the sort! If he goes straight—if you go straight—how can he ever help you? He can't! And it will be your finish—the finish of all the big things we've talked about. Listen: since Larry threw us down, I've taken hold of things and will soon be ready to spring something big. Just a few days now and you'll be out of that dirty street, and you'll be in swell clothes doing swell work—and it will mean the best restaurants, theaters, swell times!”
The car had turned into the narrow, cobbled street and had paused before the Duchess's. Suddenly Barney caught her into his arms.
“And, Maggie, you're going to be mine! We'll have a nifty little place, all right! You know I'm dippy about you....And, Maggie, I don't even want you to go back in there where Larry Brainard is. Let's drive back uptown and start in together now! To-night!”
It was not the fact that he had not suggested marriage which stirred Maggie: men and women in Barney's class lived together, and sometimes they were married and sometimes they were not. It was something else, something of which she was not definitely conscious: but she felt no such momentary thrill, no momentary, dazing surrender, as she had felt the night when Larry had similarly held her.
“Stop that, Barney!” she gasped. “Let me go!” She struggled fiercely, and then tore herself free.
“What's wrong with you?” panted Barney. “You're mine, ain't you?”