“Phyllis,” he murmured, moving toward her.
“Stop,” she said, putting her hands out before her, as if to hold him off. “Remember where you are. I ought to be very angry, indeed.”
She drew him toward a dark wall.
“But you aren't angry, Phyllis. If you only knew how I have wanted you in this awful place. Oh, I have wanted you.”
She saw that he was white and still trembling.
“Have you, Barry?” she asked, gently. “Oh, you poor boy. I know you have been through horrible things. No, Barry, don't. You awful man,” for his hands were moving toward her again. “You must remember where you are. Look at all these people staring at us.”
“People,” he said, as if in a daze. “What difference do they make? Oh, Phyllis, you are so wonderfully lovely. I can't believe it's you, but it is, it is! I know your eyes. Are you glad to see me?” he asked shyly, his hungry eyes upon her face.
“Oh, Barry,” she whispered, the warm flush rising again in her cheeks, “can't you see? Can't you see? But what am I thinking about? Come and see mamma, and there's another dear friend and admirer of yours with her.”
“Who? Not Paula?”
“No, not Paula,” she said, with a subtle change in her voice. “Come and see!”