“I might—perhaps—make an exception.”
For a moment there was silence. Quarrington’s gaze was riveted on her slim, supple figure with its perfect symmetry and rare grace of limb. It was difficult to interpret his expression. Magda wondered if he were going to reject her offer. He seemed to be fighting something out with himself—pulled two ways—the artist in him combating the man’s impulse to resist her.
Suddenly the artist triumphed. He rose and, coming to her side, stood looking down at her.
“Will you?” he said. “Will you?”
Something more than the artist spoke in his voice. It held a note of passionate eagerness, a clipped tensity that set all her pulses racing.
She turned her head aside.
“Yes,” she answered, a little breathlessly. “Yes—if you want me to.”