'How did I seem? Say it!'
'Oh well—Henry!—I mean sort of—well, reserved. I thought you were shy.'
'Think so now!'
'I—well, no. Not exactly. Wait now, you silly boy! Really, Henry, you musn't be so—so intense.'
'But I am intense. I'm not the way I look. Nobody knows——' Here he interrupted himself.
'Oh, Henry,' she breathed, her head on his shoulder now, her arm clinging about his neck. He felt very manly. Life, real life, whirled, glowed, sparkled about him. He was exultant. 'You dear boy—I'm afraid you've made love to lots of girls.'
'I haven't!' he protested, with unquestionable sincerity. 'Not to lots.'
'Silly!' A silence. Then he felt her draw even closer to him. 'Henry, talk to me! Make love to me! Tell me you'll take me away with you—to-day!—now! Make me feel how wonderful it would be! Say it, anyway—even if—oh, Henry, say it!'
For an instant Henry's mind went cold and clear. He was a little frightened. He found himself wondering if this tempestuous young woman who clung so to him could possibly be the easy, lazy, comfortably smiling Corinne. He thought of Carmen—the Carmen of Calvé. He had suped once in that opera down at the Auditorium. He had paid fifty cents to the supe captain.
The thrill of the conqueror was his. But he was beginning to feel that this was enough, that he had best rest his case, perhaps, at this' point.