se don't let's spoil
everything now. I so wanted to be just friends."

His faced kindled and his deep eyes glowed with a fire that both
terrorized and fascinated her.

"We cannot be that, Claire." His voice vibrated with growing passion.
They stood, facing each other, and she trembled like a reed in the wind.

"I saw you this morning in his arms," he was tense and speaking rapidly,
"and I knew then that I loved you. Loved you with all the soul of me. I
could have killed him, I tell you. Claire, Claire, I love you! You must
not deny me love."

She did not, could not answer, her tongue refused to move, and her dry,
hot mouth felt as if she would smother. She looked into his eyes and
said nothing, while she shook violently.

"Claire!" he cried. "Claire! I love you!" His arms closed around her
and he held her tightly. His eyes burned into her own with a flame that
was contagious in its intensity. She gasped, trembled, and did not
struggle, though in her mind she was crying, anguished, "Lawrence!
Lawrence!"

He pressed her more tightly, and his body against her own stirred in her
a passion beyond the control of will. Her eyes lighted warmly and then
closed. She felt suffocated, weak, and her senses reeled. His head bent,
and his lips were pressed fiercely against her own parted ones, stopping
the cry that rose to her throat. He held her fast, keeping his lips
against her own until she felt her strength giving. She half leaned
against him, letting the weight of her body sink into his arms.

A savage joy sprang into his eyes. She opened her own and saw. Throwing
up her hands wildly, she struck his face, twisted her body free, and
shoving him from her, stood, white, defiant, and determined.

She was not angry with Philip, only with herself, but the storm of
self-reproach that swept over her burst into bitter, scorching words
against him.

"You, you coward! You dare to touch me, to take me that way! If I had
only known what sort of a thing you were, you, you viper! Oh, to be here
with you!"

His dark eyes flashed with sudden rage, and he moved to seize her. She
stood defiantly before him, her white face cold as outraged chastity
itself, and his anger died. Into his face came the dejected, suffering
look of a man whose passion ebbs before the compelling force of a
woman's scorn.

"Forgive me, Claire," he moaned, "forgive me. I was mad, mad."

She knew he was sincere, and she smiled sadly.

"I know, Philip," she s