“It is getting late,” she said, dancing a frantic pas seul about the chair that she had not been able to clear with sufficient speed, “do let me out.”
He brought all his powers of fascination to bear on her. She never caressed him. It was he who bestowed all the endearments. Would she not give him one, just one kiss? His tone, though firm, was despairing, and she knew he had not the faintest hope of getting what he wanted. It would really be amusing to disappoint him.
“You—you corsair,” she said, with an imperious stamp of her foot. “Take your arm away from that door and come here.”
He silently obeyed her.
“Sit down in that chair,” she said, with a flourish of her hand; “now fold your arms. I don’t want them twining around me like the tentacles of an octopus.”
He complied submissively, and then she made a pretence at bashfulness and shyness. For some time she apparently could not approach him; then her will triumphed over her scruples, and he felt a warm breathing against his ear.
“As men go,” she whispered, “you are passable. I can never love you, but I like you passionately.”
The breathing became a ripple of laughter. She suddenly choked him in a childish embrace, then leaving him sitting like a statue, his arms closely pressed together, she darted away.