Who will know?
We needn’t make any noise.
Besides, what is wrong with it?
Other people do it.
It isn’t such a terrible thing for a girl to take a fellow to her room if she wants to for a little while.”
“Oh, isn’t it?
Well, maybe not in your set.
But I know what’s right and I don’t think that’s right and I won’t do it.”
At once, as she said this, Roberta’s heart gave a pained and weakening throb, for in saying so much she had exhibited more individuality and defiance than ever he had seen or that she fancied herself capable of in connection with him.
It terrified her not a little.
Perhaps he would not like her so much now if she were going to talk like that.
His mood darkened immediately.
Why did she want to act so?
She was too cautious, too afraid of anything that spelled a little life or pleasure.
Other girls were not like that — Rita, those girls at the factory.
She pretended to love him.
She did not object to his holding her in his arms and kissing her under a tree at the end of the street.
But when it came to anything slightly more private or intimate, she could not bring herself to agree.
What kind of a girl was she, anyhow?
What was the use of pursuing her?
Was this to be another case of Hortense Briggs with all her wiles and evasions?
Of course Roberta was in no wise like her, but still she was so stubborn.
Although she could not see his face she knew he was angry and quite for the first time in this way.
“All right, then, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” came his words and with decidedly a cold ring to them.
“There are others places I can go.
I notice you never want to do anything I want to do, though.
I’d like to know how you think we’re to do.
We can’t walk the streets every night.”
His tone was gloomy and foreboding — more contentious and bitter than at any time ever between them.
And his references to other places shocked and frightened Roberta — so much so that instantly almost her own mood changed.
Those other girls in his own world that no doubt he saw from time to time!
Those other girls at the factory who were always trying to make eyes at him!
She had seen them trying, and often.
That Ruza Nikoforitch — as coarse as she was, but pretty, too.
And that Flora Brandt!
And Martha Bordaloue — ugh!
To think that any one as nice as he should be pursued by such wretches as those.
However, because of that, she was fearful lest he would think her too difficult — some one without the experience or daring to which he, in his superior world, was accustomed, and so turn to one of those.
Then she would lose him.
The thought terrified her.
Immediately from one of defiance her attitude changed to one of pleading persuasion.
“Oh, please, Clyde, don’t be mad with me now, will you?
You know that I would if I could.
I can’t do anything like that here.
Can’t you see?
You know that.
Why, they’d be sure to find out.
And how would you feel if some one were to see us or recognize you?”
In a pleading way she put one hand on his arm, then about his waist and he could feel that in spite of her sharp opposition the moment before, she was very much concerned — painfully so.
“Please don’t ask me to,” she added in a begging tone.