He did not need to ask why.  She had already explained when they were talking of Tetlow.  There was a finality in her tone that filled him with despair.  It was his turn to look at her in terror.  What power this slim delicate girl had over him!  What a price she could exact if she but knew!  Knew?  Why, he had told her—­was telling her in look and tone and gesture—­was giving himself frankly into captivity—­was prostrate, inviting her to trample.  His only hope of escape lay in her inexperience—­that she would not realize.  In the insanities of passion, as in some other forms of dementia, there is always left a streak of reason—­of that craft which leads us to try to get what we want as cheaply as possible.  Men, all but beside themselves with love, will bargain over the terms, if they be of the bargaining kind by nature.  Norman was not a haggler.  But common prudence was telling him how unwise his conduct was, how he was inviting the defeat of his own purposes.

He waved his hand impatiently.  “We’ll see, my dear,” he said with a light good-humored laugh.  “I mustn’t forget that I came to see your father.”

She looked at him doubtfully.  She did not understand—­did not quite like—­this abrupt change of mood.  It suggested to her simplicity a lack of seriousness, of sincerity.  “Do you really wish to see my father?” she inquired.

“Why else should I come away over to Jersey City?  Couldn’t I have talked with you at the office?”

This seemed convincing.  She continued to study his face for light upon the real character of this strange new sort of man.  He regarded her with a friendly humorous twinkle in his eyes.  “Then I’ll take you to him,” she said at length.  She was by no means satisfied, but she could not discover why she was dissatisfied.

“I can’t possibly do you any harm,” he urged, with raillery.

“No, I think not,” replied she gravely.  “But you mustn’t say those things!”

“Why not?” Into his eyes came their strongest, most penetrating look.  “I want you.  And I don’t intend to give you up.  It isn’t my habit to give up.  So, sooner or later I get what I go after.”

“You make me—­afraid,” she said nervously.

“Of what?” laughed he.  “Not of me, certainly.  Then it must be of yourself.  You are afraid you will end by wanting me to want you.”

“No—­not that,” declared she, confused by his quick cleverness of speech.  “I don’t know what I’m afraid of.”

“Then let’s go to your father. . . .  You’ll not tell Tetlow what I’ve said?”

“No.”  And once more her simple negation gave him a sense of her absolute truthfulness.

“Or that I’ve been here?”

She looked astonished.  “Why not?”

“Oh—­office reasons.  It wouldn’t do for the others to know.”

She reflected on this.  “I don’t understand,” was the result of her thinking.  “But I’ll do as you ask.  Only, you must not come again.”