“Good night, Sue. You are treating me better than I deserve.”
“We won't talk any more about it. Good night.” She tried to turn the catch on the lock. He reached out to help. His hand closed over hers. He turned; his eyes met hers; he took her in his arms again.
They moved slowly back toward the fire. “Peter—please!” she murmured. “It won't do.”
“Oh, Sue—Sue!” he groaned. “If we feel this way, why not marry and make a good job of it?”
Peter said this as she might have said it—all directness, matter-of-fact. “I wouldn't stop you, Sue. I wouldn't ever dominate you or take you for granted. I'd live for you, Sue.”
“I know.” She caught her breath and moved away from him. “You wouldn't stop me, but marriage and life would. No, Peter; not now. Marriage isn't on my calendar.... And, Peter, please don't make love to me. I don't want you to.”
Peter moved away, too, at this.
“Look here, Sue,” he said, after a moment's thought, rather roughly, “you go. We won't shake hands again. Just go. Right now. I promise I won't bother you. And we—we'll put the play through—put it through right.”
Her eyes were on his again, with a light in them.
A slow smile was coming to the corners of her mouth.