Lashed, driven as he judged she meant him to be by her composure, his passion shook him and ran over, from the tips of his fingers stroking the flung sleeve of her coat, from the tip of his tongue uttering the provoked, inevitable things—things that came from him hushed for the crowd, but, for her, hurried, vehement, unveiled.
She listened without saying one word; she listened without looking at him, looking, rather, straight in front of her, and tilting her head a little backward before the approach of his inflamed, impetuous face.
He stopped, and she bent forward slightly and held him with the full gaze of her serious eyes.
"What—do you think—you're doing?" she asked slowly.
He said he supposed that she could see.
"I can see a good deal. I see you think you're saying these things to me because you've found me here at this peculiar time, in this peculiar place, and because I haven't any man around."
"No, no. That wasn't it, I—I assure you."
A terrible misgiving seized him.
"Why did you do it?" she asked sweetly.
"I—upon my word, I don't know why."