“Antoinette!”
“Oh, I don’t know what I think,” she gasped. “I— Oh yes, I do, I do.”
“I like your name,” he said, simply. “Antoinette.” And then, pulling her to him, he slipped his arm about her waist.
She was frightened, numb, and then suddenly, not so much from shame as shock, tears rushed to her eyes. She turned and put her hand on the desk and hung her head and sobbed.
“Why, Antoinette,” he asked, gently, bending over her, “are you so much unused to the world? I thought you said you loved me. Do you want me to forget all this and go on as before? I can, of course, if you can, you know.”
He knew that she loved him, wanted him.
She heard him plainly enough, shaking.
“Do you?” he said, after a time, giving her moments in which to recover.
“Oh, let me cry!” she recovered herself sufficiently to say, quite wildly. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just because I’m nervous, I suppose. Please don’t mind me now.”
“Antoinette,” he repeated, “look at me! Will you stop?”