When they came to lighted streets, she bade Fowey "behave," and would not permit him even so slight a lapse from decorum as that of "holding hands."
She sat up, rearranging the disorder of her hair, adjusted her hat, surreptitiously restored the brilliance of her lips with a stick of rouge.
The man drew back sullenly into his corner, fuming....
At her door, dismissing the car, he followed her up to the stoop.
"Joan—" he began angrily.
She turned back from using her latch-key, with a wondering, child-like stare.
"Yes, Hubert?" she enquired with hidden malice.
"You're not—you're not going to send me off like this?"
"Why not?" she demanded with fine assumption of simplicity. "It's awful' late."
Fowey seized her wrist.