“Of course you do,” said Matthew in heavy, mock seriousness.
She made a futile little gesture and turned away, wrapping her cloak around her desolately.
“I’d better go.”
“No; stay, and talk to me.”
“Amuse you?”
“Amuse me.”
“I don’t want to amuse you.” She was very pathetic now. “I want to do other things for you, with you. Couldn’t I stimulate you, maybe?”
He laughed. “You do, angel; you do, immensely.”
Then all in a minute she lost control. The primitive instincts in her, so untrained by social or intellectual discipline, so thinly overlaid with “manners,” came through. She was by his side, sobbing, her arms thrown around him like a child’s.
“I want you to love me, to respect me, admire me—like—like you do Cecily!”