She did not raise her head. As if under compulsion, she answered him with
her face still hidden.
"I have dared to wonder if--perhaps--you would take me--instead. I--am
not in love with anybody else, and I never would be. If you are in love
with Phyllis, I won't go on. But if it is just beauty you care for, I am
no worse-looking than she is. And I should do my best to please you."
The low voice sank. Molly's habitual self-possession had wholly deserted
her at this critical moment. She was painfully conscious of the quiet
hand on her knee. It seemed to press upon her with a weight that was
almost intolerable.
The silence that followed was terrible to her. She wondered afterwards
how she sat through it.
Then at last he moved and took her by the wrists. "Will you look at me?"
he said.
His voice sent a quiver through her. She had never felt so desperately
scared and ashamed in all her healthy young life. Yet she yielded to the
insistence of his touch and tone, and met the searching scrutiny of his
eyes with all her courage. He was not angry, she saw; nor was he
contemptuous. More than that she could not read. She lowered her eyes
and waited. Her pulses throbbed wildly, but still she kept herself from
trembling.
"Is this a definite offer?" he asked at last.
"Yes," she answered. Her voice was very low, but it was steady.
He waited a second, and she felt the mastery of the eyes she could not
meet.
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