and the whole of his being seemed to fondle her. Till, at the verge, swooning at the breaking point, there came from her a beaten, inarticulate, moaning cry:
"Don't—oh, don't!"
His veins fused with extreme voluptuousness. For a moment he almost lost control of himself, and continued automatically. But there was a moment of inaction, of cold suspension. He was not going to take her. He drew her to him and soothed her, and caressed her. But the pure zest had gone. She struggled to herself and realized he was not going to take her. And then, at the very last moment, when his fondling had come near again, his hot living desire despising her, against his cold sensual desire, she broke violently away from him.
"Don't," she cried, harsh now with hatred, and she flung her hand across and hit him violently. "Keep off of me."
His blood stood still for a moment. Then the smile came again within him, steady, cruel.
"Why, what's the matter?" he said, with suave irony. "Nobody's going to hurt you."
"I know what you want," she said.
"I know what I want," he said. "What's the odds?"
"Well, you're not going to have it off me."
"Aren't I? Well, then I'm not. It's no use crying about it, is it?"
"No, it isn't," said the girl, rather disconcerted by his irony.
"But there's no need to have a row about it. We can kiss goodnight just the same, can't we?"
She was silent in the darkness.
"Or do you want your hat and umbrella to go home this minute?"
Still she was silent. He watched her dark figure as she stood there on the edge of the faint darkness, and he waited.
"Come and say goodnight nicely, if we're going to say it," he said.
Still she did not stir. He put his hand out and drew her into the darkness again.
"It's warmer in here," he said; "a lot cosier."
His will yet had not relaxed from her. The moment of hatred exhilarated him.
"I'm going now," she muttered, as he closed his hand over her.
"See how well you fit your place," he said, as he drew her
