“But your parents,” in swift trepidation. “Mollie, they––”
“Don’t let’s speak of them,”––sharply. 247 Then in quick contrition, her voice softened; once more it struck the maternal note.
“Pardon me, I’m very tired. Come. We have a spare room; you mustn’t go home to-night.”
The man stopped, coughed, advanced a step, then stopped again.
“Mollie, I can’t thank you; can’t ever repay you––”
“You mustn’t talk of repaying me,” she said shyly, her dark face coloring. It was the first time during the interview that she had shown a trace of embarrassment.
“Come,” she said, meeting his look again, her hand on the door; “it’s getting late. You must not venture out.”
A moment longer the man hesitated, then obeyed. Not until he was very near, so near that he could touch her, did a vestige of his former manhood appear. He paused, and their eyes were locked in a soul-searching look. Then all at once his arm was round her waist, his face beside her face.
“Mollie, girl, won’t you––just once?”
“No, no––not that! Don’t ask it.” Passionately 248 the brown hands flew to the brown cheeks, covering them protectingly. But at once came thought, the spirit of sacrifice, and contrition for the involuntary repulse.