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."
"I don't understand," said she. "A while ago you said you loved me. Now
you act as if you didn't like me at all." And she smiled gayly at him,
pouting her lips a little. Once more her beauty was shining. It made his
nerves quiver to see the color in her pure white skin where he had
kissed her.
"I don't care whether it is a game or not," he cried. And he was about
to seize her again, when she repulsed him. He crushed her resistance,
held her tight in his arms.
"You frighten me," she murmured. "You--hurt me."