She had fallen back as he, speaking, had slowly advanced.

Now the great chair in which she had been seated was alone between
them.

"Oh, books! Books are rot." He stepped around the chair.

She fell back; was cornered between the hearth and a low table.

Bob dropped into the chair; boldly regarded her; his eyes as
expressive of his slap-dash intentions as he could make them: "Look
here, I want you to enjoy yourself for once. I'm going to take you to
a music-hall or somewhere."

He stretched a foot; touched her.

She drew back close against the mantelpiece, her agitation very
evident.

"Well, don't that please you?"

"You know it is impossible."

Bob paid no regard. This was that same diffidence with which the chap
near Wimbledon had had to contend.

"We'll come out of the show early and have a bit of supper and be back
before half-past eleven. Who's to know? Now, then?"