He caught hold of her hand and clasped it between his. It remained limp there, press it as he would.... Then he saw that she was crying.
He flung himself on his knees beside her, covering her hand with kisses. There was no conflict in him now, only a raging thirst for consummation. Harrow and Christchurch were thrown to the winds.
"Beatrice," he whispered, "come away with me out of this damned place—away from the whole damned lot of them—frozen, church-going rotters! Let me take care of you! I understand, Beatrice, I know how it is! Only come with me! Leave it all to me—no trouble, no worry, everything all right! He'll be glad enough to free you—trust him! Oh, dear Beatrice...."
He bent close over her, uttering all sort of impassioned foolishnesses. He kissed her, too, not once, but again and again, and with things he scarcely knew for kisses, so unlike were they to the lightly given and taken pledges of other days.
And Beatrice was limp in his arms, as little able to stop him as to stop her tears.
"Beatrice, we must go on always like this! We can't go back now, we can't let things go on as they were! Come away with me, Beatrice, to-night, now...."
Beatrice thought how, only a year ago, not far from this very place, some one had used almost those very words to her, and the thought made her weep afresh. But her tears were not all tears of misery.
At last she dried her eyes and pushed him gently away.
"No, no more, Tommy—dear Tommy, you must stop. Really, Tommy! I don't know how I could let you go on this way—I seem to be so weak and silly these days.... I must take hold of myself...."
"But, Beatrice—"