His voice was low and gentle; too low; too gentle; he leaned forward toward her and smiled and one of his hands dropped to the blotter, very close to hers, resting there lightly, as though it would move forward and cover that other hand. His smile, his tone, his manner indicated that he felt himself completely the master, and was very certain that his advance would not be repulsed this time.
The fright went from Helen Foraker's eyes. They studied his face a moment, almost abstractedly, looking down at his hand and then back to meet his gaze.
"Please don't," she said abruptly. "There is no one here to throw you out, Mr. Taylor—Besides, I didn't think you were quite that sort."
He straightened, flushing, feeling cut and whipped, like an impudent little boy who has met dignified rebuke. He had no retort, had no resources with which to bolster his poise. He tried to smile but the effort died. He cleared his throat to speak—he knew not what, then felt welcome relief as the telephone bell whirred and the girl rose to answer it.
