The girl frowned. “It was nothing of the sort!”
“Clarice!” he cried, in amazement.
But still she was angry. Her face was first red, then almost grey. “I’m going home,” she said and turned away.
Quincy reached for her fleeing waist and threw her back into his arms.
“You shan’t behave that way, toward me!”
“Shan’t I, though? Good-bye! You needn’t come along.” And once more she made a start.
The boy stopped her. He took her angrily and bent her backward, until her face was under his.
“If you behave like that, I’ll kiss you again!”
He kissed her—savagely. And Clarice, as before, lay there in his arms, almost unheeding. He kissed her again—tenderly. And then, he looked at her. The lips were parted and moist. Her spirit seemed slumbering beneath a covert. Only her mouth was a taste of it. Her eyes were meaningless. She was not beautiful after all.
He set her up once more upon her balance.