Slowly and nervously he approached her. She did not stir nor look up. Her glance was fixed on the washstand. He bent down and murmured: "Come, now. It'll be all right. You'll travel in the ladies' saloon on the steam-packet." She did not stir. He bent lower and touched the back of her neck with his lips. And she sprang up, sobbing and angry. Because she was mad for him she hated him furiously. All tenderness had vanished. "I'll thank you not to touch me!" she said fiercely. She had given him her lips a moment ago, but now to graze her neck was an insult. He smiled sheepishly. "But really you must be reasonable," he argued. "What have I done?" "It's what you haven't done, I think!" she cried. "Why didn't you tell me while we were in the cab?" "I didn't care to begin worrying you just then," he replied: which was exactly true. The fact was, he had of course shirked telling her that no marriage would occur that day. Not being a professional seducer of young girls, he lacked skill to do a difficult thing simply. "Now come along, little girl," he went on, with just a trifle of impatience. "Let's go out and enjoy ourselves. I assure you that everything will be all right in Paris." "That's what you said about coming to London," she retorted sarcastically through her sobs. "And look at you!" Did he imagine for a single instant that she would have come to London with him save on the understanding that she was to be married immediately upon arrival? This attitude of an indignant question was not to be reconciled with her belief that his excuses for himself were truthful. But she did not remark the discrepancy. Her sarcasm wounded his vanity. "Oh, very well!" he muttered. "If you don't choose to believe what I say!" He shrugged his shoulders. She said nothing; but the sobs swept at intervals through her frame, shaking it. Reading hesitation in her face, he tried again. "Come along, little girl. And wipe your eyes." And he approached her. She stepped back. "No, no!" she denied him, passionately. He had esteemed her too cheaply. And she did not care to be called 'little girl.' "Then what shall you do?" he inquired, in a tone which blended mockery and bullying. She was making a fool of him. "I can tell you what I shan't do," she said. "I shan't go to Paris." Her sobs were less frequent. "That's not my question," he said icily. "I want to know what you will do." There was now no pretence of affectionateness either on her part or on his. They might, to judge from their attitudes, have been nourished from infancy on mutual hatred. "What's that got to do with you?" she demanded. "It's got everything to do with me," he said. "Well, you can go and find out!" she said.