How long had it been since someone called her that? The stinging in her eyes was getting worse. Ashamed and distressed, she swiped her fingertips under her eyes, dashing away the wetness. "I'm not," she insisted, when his fine opera jacket swallowed her whole. But she perversely found comfort in the article of clothing, despite the warmth of the night. It smelled like some strange scent, one she didn't recognize, but masculine all the same. Pleasant, but... cold.
Taking a breath that shuddered in her throat, she clutched at the edges of his jacket and stared at her feet. He was being so kind, but everything about him told her to run. He knew what she needed to know. He knew about Eric. She couldn't run; she had to stay. One thing Mssr. de Lioncourt was that Eric was not, was kind. Even if it was, perhaps, deceptively so. And that was an unkind thought, she chided herself. He has done nothing to make you think so uncharitably of him!
That calmed her. It was foolish to go anywhere with him alone. She had no chaperone and he truly made her uneasy. But she couldn't think of any other alternative. Bravely nodding, then, she agreed. "Please -- I don't know where else to go. All I want to do is talk."