She glanced toward the door. He was leaning there, an ominous calm in his pale, resolute face. She gazed at him with widening eyes. And her look was the look of helplessness before a force that may, indeed must, be struggled against, but with the foregone certainty of defeat.
A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes. Then his expression changed to one more conventional. "I stopped a moment to listen, on my way out," said he.
Her expression changed also. The instinctive, probably unconscious response to his look faded into the sweet smile, serious rather than merry, that was her habitual greeting. "Mr. Tetlow didn't get away from father so soon."
"I stayed longer than I intended. I found it even more interesting than I had expected. . . . Would you be glad if your father could be free to do as he likes and not be worried about anything?"
"That is one of my dreams."
"Well, it's certainly one that might come true. . . .
And you-- It's a shame that you should have to do so much drudgery--both here and in New York."
"Oh, I don't mind about myself. It's all I'm fit for. I haven't any talent--except for dreaming."
"And for ******--SOME man's dreams come true."
Her gaze dropped. And as she hid herself she looked once more almost as insignificant and colorless as he had once believed her to be.
"What are you thinking about?"
She shook her head slowly without raising her eyes or emerging from the deep recess of her reserve.
"You are a mystery to me. I can't decide whether you are very innocent or very--concealing."
She glanced inquiringly at him. "I don't understand," she said.
He smiled. "No more do I. I've seen so much of faking--in women as well as in men--that it's hard for me to believe anyone is genuine."
"Do you think I am trying to deceive you? About what?"
He made an impatient gesture--impatience with his credulity where she was concerned. "No matter. I want to make you happy--because I want you to make me happy."
Her eyes became as grave as a wondering child's.
"You are laughing at me," she said.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I could not make you happy."
"Why not?"
"What could a serious man like you find in me?"
His intense, burning gaze held hers. "Some time I will tell you."
She shut herself within herself like a flower folding away its beauty and leaving exposed only the underside of its petals. It was impossible to say whether she understood or was merely obeying an instinct.
He watched her a moment in silence. Then he said:
"I am mad about you--mad. You MUST understand.
I can think only of you. I am insane with jealousy of you. I want you--I must have you."
He would have seized her in his arms, but the look of sheer amazement she gave him protected her where no protest or struggle would. "You?" she said. "Did you really mean it? I thought you were just talking."
"Can't you see that I mean it?"
"Yes--you look as if you did. But I can't believe it. I could never think of you in that way."
Once more that frank statement of indifference infuriated him. He MUST compel her to feel--he must give that indifference the lie--and at once! He caught her in his arms. He rained kisses upon her pale face.
She made not the least resistance, but seemed dazed.
"I will teach you to love me," he cried, drunk now with the wine of her lips, with the perfume of her exquisite youth. "I will make you happy. We shall be mad with happiness."
She gently freed herself. "I don't believe I could ever think of you in that way."
"Yes, darling--you will. You can't help loving where you are loved so utterly."
She gazed at him wonderingly--the puzzled wonder of a child. "You--love--me?" she said slowly.
"Call it what you like. I am mad about you. I have forgotten everything--pride--position--things you can't imagine--and I care for nothing but you."
And again he was kissing her with the soft fury of fire; and again she was submitting with the passive, dazed expression that seemed to add to his passion. To make her feel! To make her respond! He, whom so many women had loved--women of position, of fame for beauty, of social distinction or distinction as singers, players--women of society and women of talent all kinds of worth-while women--they had cared, had run after him, had given freely all he had asked and more.
And this girl--nobody at all--she had nothing for him.
He held her away from him, cried angrily: "What is the matter with you? What is the matter with me?"
"I don't understand," she said. "I wish you wouldn't kiss me so much."
He released her, laughed satirically. "Oh--you are playing a game. I might have known."
