"To Boston!" she repeated. "Now?"
"Why not?" he said, stopping the car. "Here's the road—it's a boulevard all the way."
It was not so much the proposal as the passion in his voice, in his touch, the passion to which she felt herself responding that filled her with apprehension and dismay, and yet aroused her pride and anger.
"I told you I had to be home," she said.
"I'll have you home by ten o'clock; I promise. We're going to be married,
Janet," he whispered.
"Oh, if you meant to marry me you wouldn't ask me to do this!" she cried.
"I want to go back to Hampton. If you won't take me, I'll walk."
She had drawn away from him, and her hand was on the door. He seized her arm.
"For God's sake, don't take it that way!" he cried, in genuine alarm. "All I meant was—that we'd have a nice little dinner. I couldn't bear to leave you, it'll be a whole week before we get another day. Do you suppose I'd—I'd do anything to insult you, Janet?"
With her fingers still tightened over the door-catch she turned and looked at him.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "Sometimes I think you would. Why shouldn't you? Why should you marry me? Why shouldn't you try to do with me what you've done with other women? I don't know anything about the world, about life. I'm nobody. Why shouldn't you?"