“What number?” he questioned, as though she were compelled to tell him.
She quailed and shook inwardly. “Thirteen fourteen,” she replied mechanically.
He looked into her big, soft-blue eyes with his dark, vigorous brown ones. A flash that was hypnotic, significant, insistent passed between them.
“You belong to me,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you. When can I see you?”
“Oh, you mustn’t,” she said, her fingers going nervously to her lips. “I can’t see you—I—I—”
“Oh, I mustn’t, mustn’t I? Look here”—he took her arm and drew her slightly closer—“you and I might as well understand each other right now. I like you. Do you like me? Say?”
She looked at him, her eyes wide, filled with wonder, with fear, with a growing terror.
“I don’t know,” she gasped, her lips dry.
“Do you?” He fixed her grimly, firmly with his eyes.
“I don’t know.”