Pat slammed the empty tumbler down on the checked table cloth and
buried her face in her hands, choking and gasping from the effects
of the fiery liquor. Her throat burned, her mouth was parched by the
acrid taste, and a conflagration seemed to be raging somewhere within
her. Then she steadied, raised her eyes, and stared straight into the
strange eyes of Nicholas Devine.
"Well?" she said fiercely. "Is that enough?"
He was watching her coldly as an image or a painting; the intensity of
his gaze was more cat-like than human. She moved her head aside; his
eyes, without apparent shift, were still on hers, like the eyes of a
pictured face. A resurgence of anger shook her at his immobility; his
aloofness seemed to imply that nothing she could do would disturb him.
"Wasn't it enough?" she screamed. "Wasn't it? Then look!"
She seized the bottle, poured another stream of the oily liquid
into her glass, and raised it to her lips. Again the burning fluid
excoriated her tongue and throat, and then suddenly, the tumbler was
struck from her hand, spilling the rest of its contents on the table.
"That is enough," said the icy voice of her companion.
"Oh, it is? We'll see!" She snatched at the bottle, still more than
half full. The thin hand of Nicholas Devine wrenched it violently away.
"Give me that!" she cried. "You wanted what you're getting!" The warmth
within her had reached the surface now; she felt flushed, excited,
reckless, and desperately angry.
The other set the bottle deliberately on the floor; he rose, circled
the table, and stood glaring down at her with that same inexplicable
expression. Suddenly he raised his hand; twisting her black hair in
his fist, he dealt her a stinging blow across the lips half-opened to
scream, then flung her away so violently that she nearly sprawled from
her chair.
The scream died in her throat; dazed by the blow, she dropped her head
to the table, while sobs of pain and fear shook her. Coherent thought
had departed, and she knew only that her lips stung, that her clear,
active little mind was caught in a mesh of befuddlement. She couldn't
think; she could only sob in the haze of dizziness that encompassed
her. After a long interval, she raised her head, opened her eyes upon
a swaying, unsteady world, and faced her companion, who had silently
resumed his seat.
"Nicholas Devine," she said slowly, speaking as if each word were an
effort, "I hate you!"
"Ah!" he said and was again silent.
She forced her eyes to focus on his face, while his features danced
vaguely as if smoke flowed between the two of them. It was as if there
were smoke in her mind as well; she made a great effort to rise above
the clouds that bemused her thoughts.
"Take me home," she said. "Nicholas, I want to go home."
"Why should I?" he asked impassively. "The experiment is hardly begun."
"Experiment?" she echoed dully. "Oh, yes--experiment. I'm an
experiment."
"An experiment in evil," he said.
"Yes--in evil. And I hate you! That's evil enough, isn't it?"
He reached down, lifted the bottle to the table, and methodically
poured himself a drink of the liquor. He raised it, watching the oily
swirls in the light, then tipped the fluid to his lips while the girl
gazed at him with a sullen set to her own lips. A tiny crimson spot
had appeared in the corner of her mouth; at its sting, she raised her
hand and brushed it away. She stared as if in unbelief at the small red
smear it left on her fingers.
"Nicholas," she said pleadingly, "won't you take me home? Please,
Nicholas, I want to leave here."
"Do you hate me?" he asked, a queer twisting smile appearing on his
lips.
"If you'll take me home I won't," said Pat, snatching through the
rising clouds of dizziness at a straw of logic. "You're going to take
me home, aren't you?"
"Let me hear you say you hate me!" he demanded, rising again. The girl
cringed away with a little whimper as he approached. "You hate me,
don't you?"
He twisted his hand again in her ebony hair, drawing her face back so
that he stared down at it.
"There's blood on your lips," he said as if gloating. "Blood on your
lips!"
He clutched her hair more tightly; abruptly he bent over her, pressing
his mouth to hers. Her bruised lips burned with pain at the fierce
pressure of his; she felt a sharp anguish at the impingement of his
teeth. Yet the cloudy pall of dizziness about her was unbroken; she was
too frightened and bewildered for resistance.
"Blood on your lips!" he repeated exultingly. "Now is the beauty of
evil!"
"Nicholas," she said wearily, clinging desperately to a remnant of
logic, "what do you want of me? Tell me what you want and then let me
go home."
"I want to show you the face of evil," he said. "I want you to know the
glory of evil, the loveliness of supreme evil!"
He dragged his chair around the table, placing it beside her. Seated,
he drew her into his arms, where she lay passive, too limp and
befuddled to resist. With a sudden movement, he turned her so that her
back rested across his knees, her face gazing up into his. He stared
intently down at her, and the light, shining at an angle into his eyes,
suddenly struck out the red glow that lingered in them.
"I want you to know the power of evil," he murmured. "The irresistible,
incomprehensible fascination of it, and the unspeakable pleasures of
indulgence in it."
Pat scarcely heard him; she was struggling now in vain against the
overwhelming fumes of the alcohol she had consumed. The room was
wavering around her, and behind her despair and terror, a curious
elation was thrusting itself into her consciousness.
"Evil," she echoed vaguely.
"Blood on your lips!" he muttered, peering down at her. "Taste the
unutterable pleasure of kisses on bloody lips; drain the sweet anguish
of pain, the fierce delight of suffering!"
He bent down; again his lips pressed upon hers, but this time she felt
herself responding. Some still sane portion of her brain rebelled,
but the intoxication of sense and alcohol was dominant. Suddenly she
was clinging to him, returning his kisses, glorying in the pain of her
lacerated lips. A red mist suffused her; she had no consciousness of
anything save the exquisite pain of the kiss, that somehow contrived
to transform itself into an ecstacy of delight. She lay gasping as the
other withdrew his lips.
"You see!" he gloated. "You understand! Evil is open to us, and all the
unutterable pleasures of the damned, who cry out in transports of joy
at the bite of the flames of Hell. Do you see?"
The girl made no answer, sobbing in a chaotic mingling of pain and
excruciating pleasure. She was incapable of speech or connected
thought; the alcohol beat against her brain with a persistence that
defied resistance. After a moment, she stirred, struggling erect to a
sitting posture.
"Evil!" she said dizzily. "Evil and good--what's difference? All in a
lifetime!"
She felt a surge of tipsy elation, and then the muffled music of the
mechanical piano, drifting through the closed door, penetrated her
befuddled consciousness.
"I want to dance!" she cried. "I'm drunk and I want to dance! Am I
drunk?" she appealed to her companion.
"Yes," he said.
"I am not! I just want to dance, only it's hot in here. Dance with me,
Nicholas--show me an evil dance! I want to dance with the Devil, and
I will! You're the Devil, name and all! I want to dance with Old Nick
himself!"
She rose unsteadily from her chair; instantly the room reeled crazily
about her and she fell sprawling. She felt the grasp of arms beneath
her shoulders, raising her erect; she leaned against the wall and heard
herself laughing wildly.
"Funny room!" she said. "Evil room--on pivots!"
"You're still to learn," came the toneless voice of Nicholas Devine.
"Do you want to see the face of evil?"
"Sure!" she said. "Got a good memory for faces!"
She realized that he was fumbling with the catch of her dress on her
left shoulder; again some remnant, some vestige of sanity deep in her
brain warned her.
"Mustn't," she said vaguely.
Then suddenly the catch was open; the dress dropped away around her,
crumpling to a shapeless blob of cloth about her diminutive feet. She
covered her face with her hands, fighting to hold that last, vanishing
vestige of sobriety, while she stood swaying drunkenly against the wall.
Then Nicholas Devine's arms were about her again; she felt the sharp
sting of his kisses on her throat. He swung her about, bent her
backwards across the low table; she was conscious of a bewildered
sensation of helplessness and of little else.
"Now the supreme glory of evil!" he was muttering in her ear. She felt
his hands on her bare shoulders as he pressed her backward.
Then, abruptly, he paused, releasing her. She sat dizzily erect,
following the direction of his gaze. In the half open door stood the
nondescript bartender leering in at them.
10