She smiled: "That does not matter. It is you I shall call to see, and
not your rooms."
Then he pressed her to know when she would come. She named a day in the
latter half of the week. He begged of her to advance the date in broken
sentences, playing with and squeezing her hands, with glittering eyes,
and flushed face, heated and torn by desire, that imperious desire which
follows _tete-a-tete_ repasts. She was amazed to see him implore her
with such ardor, and yielded a day from time to time. But he kept
repeating: "To-morrow, only say to-morrow."